And Then There's Life
by CitronPresse
Summary: Everything changes for Mark and Meredith when Mark has to face issues from his past. Sequel to "Saving Lives." Set one year later. Pairing: Mark/Meredith; Characters: Cast.
1. Maybe You Still Love Me, Maybe You Don't

A/N: This story is the sequel to _Saving Lives_, which can be found at my profile. As this one follows a mostly new story line, you could probably read it without reading that first, but I think it would make more sense in context.

Many thanks to EscapismRocks, Karevsanatomy and boofadil for beta-ing, discussion, reassurance and everything else.

* * *

_There is love, of course  
And then there's life, its enemy_

Jean Anouilh

* * *

Chapter 1 - Maybe You Still Love Me, Maybe You Don't

When Mark woke up in the early hours of the morning, the first thing he noticed was the sound of heavy rain pounding against his bedroom windows and a rumble of distant thunder. A few months ago, his first thought would have been "typical fucking Seattle." Now, though, he didn't mind the rain; he even liked it a little; he even liked Seattle. The second thing he noticed was that the reason for this change of heart towards the city and its weather, Meredith, was curled up in his bed next to him and sleeping soundly.

He had gone to bed early and alone, exhausted from a long, difficult emergency surgery and overwhelmed by his appointment at the end of the day with Julia Lindstrom, his oncologist. After the tiring day at work, his brain hadn't worked quite well enough to process the news she'd given him and he was still having problems adjusting to it.

It was dumb. It was good news. It was just that it he'd lived for a year with the fear that he might be told at any time that his immunotherapy program wasn't working and that he was going to die. And today Julia had told him he was in remission.

It wasn't official. As Julia had pointed out, no responsible oncologist could tell you after one year that you were in complete remission. You couldn't make that call until the 5-year mark. But she'd run all the labs and re-run them and they kept coming back clean. There wasn't any sign of cancer. The metastatic tumors had cleared months ago and now there was no active disease in his small intestine. And since he was another doctor in the same hospital, and since she liked him, she had told him the news.

Realizing that he was holding his breath as he went over this in his mind, he forced himself to exhale. For the first time, he really got what Julia had said to him. He understood the caveats. He would have to continue with a modified form of the treatment program and have regular check-ups and, like she said, it wasn't official. But fuck! He couldn't prevent a grin from spreading over his face. He had been feeling better, but he hadn't expected this. He didn't have cancer, at least for now, and he wasn't going to die.

Meredith stirred in her sleep and, after turning on the bedside lamp to get a better look at her, he leaned over her protectively. "Hey," he whispered softly in her ear. "I didn't even know you were here."

She made a sound that resembled "Mmghh," before rolling over in bed and turning to face him. Drowsily, she sought out his hand and held on to it. "Key," she mumbled, meaning that she'd let herself in while he was sleeping. She opened bleary, confused eyes and blinked at him. "'S busy," she said indistinctly.

"Yeah?" he asked, smiling at her disorientation. "Seems kind of quiet to me. Just you and me here, Mer." Probably what Mark liked most about being with Meredith was the easy, casual intimacy between them; the combination of freedom to be himself and having a warm place to fall. She wasn't always perfect; stuff got in the way. But it wasn't like he was perfect boyfriend material either and somehow they made it work. Like nothing he'd ever known before.

"No." She flailed the hand that wasn't holding his in a befuddled attempt to communicate. "Not here. Hospital. 'S busy. Patients." She frowned. "Patients and . . . and interns . . ." Her words trailed off as she lapsed briefly back into a doze, then immediately woke up again, startled.

She opened her eyes fully and her face registered surprise as she focused on him, before breaking into a delighted but confused smile. "Hello!" she said. "You're awake now!"

"More than can be said for you," he teased her.

She shook her head. "I'm completely awake," she protested unconvincingly. "I was waiting for _you_ to wake up." She lifted his hand to her lips and tenderly kissed his palm. "Hey," she said dreamily and, without warning, her eyes closed again and she fell instantly back to sleep and started snoring.

Mark laughed softly to himself. It wasn't exactly the sexiest sound he'd ever heard come from a woman, but he'd more or less gotten used to it and because it was her, he even found it cute. If he'd been an easy mark for evil redheads, he was a total pushover for insecure blondes.

"I have something to tell you," he said to Meredith's sleeping form. This could be a rehearsal for when he told her later on and hearing himself say it made it seem more real. "Apparently, I'm in complete remission."

On some level, she must have heard, because she smiled at the sound of his voice and once again uttered the "Mmghh" sound.

"Good to know you feel that way about it," Mark joked in a low voice, not wanting to disturb her. "Makes a guy feel really special. And just for the record, I was hoping to get laid tonight." He played with her hair, enjoying the familiar silky sensation as it briefly resisted his fingers, then gave way as he ran his hand through its soft length. "That's okay though, beautiful," he whispered. God, he loved this woman. "There's always other nights."

He put his arms around her and drew her towards him and, in her sleep, Meredith nestled her head comfortably against his shoulder. This had to be about as good as life got, Mark thought, as he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep for a few hours.

* * *

"Coffee." It was just after 4:45 am and Meredith, woken partly by the alarm on her cell phone, partly by the smell of brewing coffee and partly by Mark's absence from the bed, wandered into his workout room where he was lifting weights, lying on his back astride a bench made for the purpose. She stopped in her tracks in the doorway, holding two steaming coffee mugs out in front of her.

He was dressed only in a pair of ratty looking sweat pants and his stunningly muscled and now slightly sweaty upper body was on display.

He took her breath away.

She knew that the changes his illness had made to his body had bothered him although, from her perspective, he over-estimated the effects. To her, he'd always been freaking awesome. That had been her spontaneous reaction when she'd first seen him naked and it still expressed her feelings better than anything else. In the last few months, though, he'd felt better and started working out again. And now he was . . . well, yeah . . . still freaking awesome!

Grunting slightly, Mark carefully returned the weight to the rack just above his head, sat up straddling the bench and wiped his face with a cloth. He grinned at Meredith and held out his hand for the coffee.

"Morning," he said happily. "See something you like?"

"You're obsessed!" she replied, pretending to ignore his flirting and rolling her eyes. "It's 4:45 in the morning. You're an attending. You don't even have to be up this early and yet here you are . . ." she searched around for the proper term; she could never remember all the different types of weights and exericses, "pumping iron."

Mark laughed. "Well, I believe I'd call it doing bench presses. But whatever humps your camel, I guess."

"Humps my—?"

"Karev," Mark said, by way of explanation

"Oh," she said drily. "I thought you were his teacher, not the other way around."

"Whatever, dude," he replied, parodying Alex. He took a sip of his coffee and then set the mug down on the floor next to him, caught Meredith by the hand and pulled her down on to the bench, causing her to spill some of her coffee in the process.

"Just trying to stay pretty for you, Mer," he said, planting a kiss on her mouth.

She raised an eyebrow. "Trust me," she said and scanned his body. "The pretty thing? You're already doing quite well with that."

He grinned again and a glint appeared his eyes and, almost before she knew what was happening, he had taken her coffee mug, put it down on the floor with his own and laid back down on the bench, lifting her on top of him.

Meredith giggled. "So could you bench press _me_?"

"Shit, I should hope so!" he laughed. "You can't weigh more than about 90 pounds."

Cradling her face between his hands, he eased her closer and slipped the tip of his tongue into her mouth, teasing the delicate, responsive skin inside her upper lip and finishing up with the gentlest of bites, just enough that she could feel the slight pressure of his teeth.

"Mmmm," she sighed softly. "Good morning." She brushed Mark's lips with her own and allowed her chin to graze briefly against his ever-present stubble. As she did so, a lock of hair fell forward and hung in her eyes and Mark reached up and tucked it gently back behind her ear.

"Did I tell you that I love you yet today?" he asked her.

She shook her head, smiling.

"Well, I do," he said and then pretended to be hurt as he added, "even though you fall asleep when I want to make love with you—"

"I was exhausted," she broke in, playfully indignant. "I had a bad day and you were sleeping and—"

"And snore . . . and interrupt me when I have something important to tell you."

"You do?" she asked.

"I saw Julia yesterday," he said and Meredith's eyes immediately took on a concerned look. "No, it's fine, Mer. It's good," he reassured her hastily. "I'm in remission." Her eyes widened and he shrugged and smiled in response. "She can't find any evidence of cancer."

"You're well?" she asked uncertainly.

"That's what she says," he replied. "Officially I'm still a cancer patient. But it seems like—"

"Seriously?" Meredith hardly trusted that she'd heard him correctly.

"Seriously."

"You're well?" she asked again, this time with more certainty, although her eyes had filled with tears.

"Still the same answer," Mark said, trying to keep his own emotions under control.

The moisture brimming in Meredith's eyes spilled over and trickled down her face unnoticed by her as she gazed intently at Mark.

"That's all I wanted," she whispered. "That's all . . . now you can . . . we can. . ." She had no idea how to express what she was feeling; an impossible mixture of love and relief and hope and the sadness and fear that she had hardly allowed herself to feel before.

Mark used a thumb to gently wipe away her tears. "C'mere," he said softly and coaxed her into a long, slow, warm kiss.

* * *

"So you had a bad day yesterday?" Mark asked Meredith as he drove her to the hospital. He didn't have to be in this early, but he figured he could check on yesterday's patient and maybe take the opportunity to watch Karev rounding with his interns, which could be kind of amusing. At least that was his excuse. Really he just wanted to spend a little more time with Meredith. "Did it have anything to do with 'patients and interns?' Because you had a lot to say about that last night." He smirked. "Snoring, conversation; you're very talented when you're unconscious. You think you could learn to give blow jobs in your sleep as well?"

Meredith, who was rummaging in her roomy purse, responded with an irritated snort that disconcerted Mark enough to make him take his eyes off the road for a few seconds and stare at her.

"Everything all right?" he asked, looking straight ahead again. Partly for safety, but partly because he wasn't sure he wanted to see the look in her eyes if and when she turned towards him. He always forgot about this when everything was good between them. And if he was honest, her sometimes inexplicable mood changes scared the shit out of him.

Without answering, Meredith retrieved a tube of lipgloss from her purse, yanked down the vanity mirror almost violently, and applied the cosmetic to her lips with an angry, staccato movement. When she was finished, she pushed up the vanity mirror and threw the lipgloss back into her purse. She pulled out a scrunchy and twisted her hair into a rough ponytail and fixed it in place, before dumping the purse onto the limited floor space in front of her.

"I'm fine," she said and stared fixedly out the window.

"Did I miss something?" Mark asked uncertainly. "I guess that wasn't a very good joke about sleep-blowing—"

"It's not the joke. The joke was fine!" Meredith broke in, and managed a brief, tense smile. She was still irritated, but not with him. At least not much. The relief and pleasure of finding out that he was well had made her forget about yesterday, and she was annoyed at being reminded of it. None of it was his fault; at least not directly. She had issues. It wasn't like that was a secret. But her issues bugged him so much that she couldn't really talk to him about them. And between trying not to upset him and trying to to deal with everything and trying to make some kind of sense out of it all, the whole thing made her feel torn and cranky and out of control.

"It's not you," she blurted out, against her better judgement. "It's _her_."

"Her?"

"Cristina's stupid intern," she snapped. "She's everywhere. All the time. Wanting," she sighed, "_things_."

"Can't she ask Yang for . . . things?" Mark asked. He had no idea what she was talking about. He just knew that you got points from women for making appropriate noises during their incomprehensible girl flip-outs.

"Not intern things," Meredith snapped. "Sister things. Bonding, let's braid each other's hair and share our secrets things." She sighed again. "I'm sorry," she said a little sullenly.

"'S fine," Mark said tersely, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. He hated it when she started on this crap.

"I know you hate it when—"

"I said it's fine," he repeated, much more harshly than he'd intended. But goddamn it! She had to bring this up today? She couldn't just drive into work with him and . . . fucking be in love? He'd just told her he was in remission and she had to raise this one thing that screwed with his mind and left him feeling helpless and angry and pissed off at her. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to stop being an ass. He had said, when this first came up—and despite his own preferences, he'd meant it—that she could talk about her issues with her family, just as long as she didn't insist on him talking about his.

"It's fine," he said more gently. "You can talk about Lexie if you want."

Meredith shook her head. "No," she said determinedly. "You drew a line. That's your right."

"Listen." This came out impatiently, and he made an effort to sound friendlier. "I already told you more than once. I didn't say you couldn't talk about your family. I just said I didn't want to talk about mine and that I probably wouldn't be much use to you." He was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. She'd gone to her "I'm fine" place and he didn't know how to reconnect with her.

"No," she said again. "I understand and . . . it's fine. I'm fine." She turned towards him and gave him what might have passed for a smile if he hadn't known her so well, before turning back to gaze out of the window.

Fucking great! Mark thought. An hour ago they'd been hopeful and happy and in love. Now they were in this fucked-up, scary place where things that were long past their sell-by date, and that they couldn't ever change, mattered more than their feelings for one another right now.

He wrenched the Porsche into an unnecessary new gear, purely to have something to take out his frustration on. As far as he was concerned, her mommy and daddy and now little sister issues eroded their connection, took away his soft place to fall and, yeah, scared the fucking shit out of him. But he pulled himself together and realized that he had to try. Given her mood, he figured this would sound pathetic and probably be useless, but he had to try anyway. "I love you, Mer," he said quietly, only fully recognizing his desperation when he heard it in his voice.

Meredith swallowed, before she said, equally quietly but with much less feeling, "I love you too."

* * *

Title song: _**Either Way**_, Wilco

_Maybe the sun will shine today  
The clouds will blow away  
Maybe I won't feel so afraid  
I will try to understand  
Either way_


	2. I Could Be Wrong, You Could Be Right

Chapter 2 – I Could Be Wrong, You Could Be Right

"You know I love you, right?"

Meredith nodded once, without looking at him, staring ahead at the elevator wall, but Mark could see the corners of her mouth struggling not to smile. "So you've said," she replied losing the battle with her lips. "Several times, in fact. Here's the thing, though," she turned to him and raised an eyebrow, still smiling, "I don't love you."

Thank God she was coming around! He had surgeries and meetings scheduled that would probably take up most of the day and he wanted to make things right with her before he got started.

"Aw, come on Mer. It's me!" He took advantage of her emerging good mood to tease her—to appear to tease her, because what he was about to quote back to her were some of the most amazing things anyone had ever said to him and he wanted to remind her who they were together, he just didn't want to sound too intense. "I make you feel safe, remember? Even if we're both messed up beyond reason you want to try with me, right?" He grinned. "So now's your chance."

Meredith slapped his arm. "I was pouring my heart out to you," she said. "That was real. It wasn't something for you to repeat to me in elevators to . . . to suck up to me and twist my arm. That was—"

He reached out and stroked her cheek tenderly with the back of his hand. "That was you saying that you love me," he said softly.

She inhaled. "It was. I was. And I . . ."

"You love me," he said, pushing her gently back against the wall with his body.

"Now I can't think," she said. "I can't think with all the leaning and breathing and—"

Mark kissed the sensitive area between her neck and her ear.

"And _that_. I can't think while you're doing that," she murmured.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Callie Torres got in.

"Ooh! I'm happy _someone's_ getting some," she said, sounding slightly envious, as Mark moved reluctantly away from Meredith, giving her a brief last kiss on the cheek.

"Mark," Callie said. "I'm on my way to see a kid brought in from a house fire with multiple fractures and burns. You think you could join me?"

"Sure," he said, distractedly. Things with Meredith still weren't quite resolved. "Are we okay?"

Meredith nodded.

"You love me?" he asked, vaguely aware that, however much he tried to mask it with jokes and come-ons, his insecurity was reaching levels that he'd always found a serious turn-off when it was directed at him.

Meredith finally gave in. "Of course I love you," she whispered and reached up and returned his kiss. "You want to meet for lunch?"

Hell, yeah! he thought. And fuck you in an on-call room until we've forgotten about all of this.

"Can't," he said wistfully. "I've got two surgeries and a meeting with the Chief about composite tissue allotransplantation—"

"Radical!" Callie interrupted approvingly, adding "Sorry," and looking down uncomfortably when Mark shot her a glance.

The elevator stopped at Meredith's floor, the doors opened and Meredith walked towards them, as several people got in.

"You could come over tonight," Mark suggested, over the heads of the milling people. "We could get Chinese food or—"

"We could," Meredith said, and gave him a warm if slightly haunted smile. "My shift finishes at 8:30. I'll come over right after." She stepped out of the elevator as the doors closed again, leaving Mark with the memory of her back and her blonde ponytail.

He leaned against the wall and sighed. "Shit, love's exhausting," he said, half to himself and half to Callie, who gave his arm a brief squeeze, but was tactful enough not to ask questions.

* * *

"What have we got, Dr. Grey?" Callie asked as she and Mark arrived in the Pit.

Mark narrowed his eyes. "Yang's stupid intern," he muttered to himself, as both Callie and Lexie Grey stared at him with wide eyes, hurt in Lexie's case and incredulous in Callie's.

"Wow!" Callie spluttered. "And there I was thinking love had softened you up!" She turned to Lexie. "Ignore him," she said. "We only put up with him because he's pretty and, when he can see past his own ego, good at his job." She glared at Mark.

"What?" Lost in his own thoughts, he had, at first, no idea what he'd done, but then realized and, after briefly blushing—which Callie noticed and laughed at— and fighting the urge to apologize, covered for himself. "It's not personal," he said gruffly. "All interns are stupid."

Callie rolled her eyes. "Like I said . . . ignore him," she said. "What about the patient, Dr. Grey? I was paged."

Lexie showed them into an exam room, where a nurse was attending to a little girl under heavy sedation. "Lauren Mitchell, 10 years old," Lexie said in a soft but clear voice. "The neighbors told the paramedics she was probably home alone. She was pulled out of a house fire—no adults have been found, either alive or deceased, and we called Social Services—with multiple fractures from fallen masonry and 2nd degree burns to both legs. Dr Bailey gave her 8 mg of INM and had me page you."

Callie nodded. "What do you think?" she asked Mark.

"Water-jet debridement and biosynthetic dressings," he said thoughtfully, studying the patient. "But once that's done, you should get going with the fractures and we'll come back to the burns later."

"Cool," she said. "That's what I was thinking. I'll find a 2nd year resident to dress the burns."

Mark shook his head slowly, still not taking his eyes from the little girl. "No," he said. "I'll do it." He smiled briefly at Lexie. "Grey can assist," he said.

"I thought you had a surgery," Callie said.

"Breast augmentation," he said dismissively. "I'll have Karev push it back."

* * *

"You see, Grey, water-jet debridement is quicker and more effective and we run less risk of exacerbating any fractures," Mark said, closely scrutinizing the patient's burns as he worked.

Lexie nodded, anxious to appear attentive and said, "Yes, Dr. Sloan." She found Mark a little intimidating but, contrary to what everyone had told her about him, he was teaching her and being a lot nicer than his "stupid intern" remark had led her to believe he would.

"We're about done here," Mark continued, shutting off the surgical tool and handing it to Lexie. "If you could hand me the dressings, I'll do the first couple and then you can try."

She retrieved the pile of dressings and turned back to him to hand him the first one, but stopped short when she noticed that he was staring at the little girl's face and that his eyes were glistening slightly with what looked like tears.

Nervously, she cleared her throat. "Uh, Dr. Sloan?" she ventured.

"Yeah," he said, not really paying attention to her.

Lexie swallowed. The man was an attending, well known for his sarcasm towards interns and, yet worse, her sister's . . . she corrected herself . . . Meredith's boyfriend. But she was concerned, she couldn't help it, and she felt she should say something.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"Huh?" he asked and then roused himself. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just . . . it's tragic, isn't it?" He looked into her eyes for a brief second, before looking back at the patient. "To be 10 years old and alone and trapped in a house fire." He shook his head. "Parents have a lot to answer for." He sighed and held out his hand. "Dressing, Grey," he said and Lexie, pleased to be relieved of the need to find something reassuring to say, let out the breath she had been holding and handed him the first dressing.

As he peeled off the protective outer covering, Mark asked, without looking at her, "You have good parents, Dr. Grey?"

He put it as though it was just some kind of casual conversational question, but there was something else there that she couldn't quite understand. She was trying so hard to find ways to get Meredith to like her, or at least acknowledge her, and she didn't want to say anything to him that might mess that up. After a moment's indecision, she decided to tell the truth, but be as brief and uninformative as possible.

"My mom was . . . my mom died . . . my mom was lovely. Just great," she said. "And my dad? He's fine. He's . . . he's my dad."

Mark narrowed his eyes, a little skeptically, she thought, and as though trying to read her, before giving a soft sigh and saying, "Well, that's fine, then." He didn't raise the subject again or talk to her about anything else except the biosynthetic dressings and taking the patient for x-rays for Callie.

* * *

"Want to go to Joe's?" Meredith asked. It was 8:30, and she and Cristina had just finished their shifts and were sitting in the residents' lounge.

"Why?" Cristina didn't look up from the journal she was scanning.

Meredith twitched an eyebrow. "Uh . . . to get a drink?" she said.

"Uh . . . but you never go to Joe's this late anymore unless McSteamy's with you." She mimicked Meredith's tone as she continued skimming the pages of the journal. "Sorry . . . Mark," she corrected herself automatically.

Meredith gave a little sigh and, despite her urge not to, Cristina finally looked up.

"What?" she asked.

"_What_ what?"

"What was the meaningful, please-ask-me-what's-wrong sigh for?"

"Nothing."

Cristina rolled her eyes. "_Really_ nothing nothing; or _something_ nothing?"

Meredith made a snarky face at her. "You're mean," she said. "Anyway, what would I have to sigh about?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Cristina said and looked back at the journal. Then, after a few seconds, she imitated Meredith's little sigh and then looked at her and smirked.

"Mark's in remission—"

"After one year?" Cristina interrupted doubtfully, but then added, "Sorry. Congratulations. Or whatever you're supposed to say." Now it was her turn to sigh for real as she heard the inappropriate crap come out of the mouth. She took a breath and tried again. "That's great, Mer. I'm pleased for him . . . and you."

Meredith nodded. "And we had a fight this morning," she said. "Well, not a fight exactly. More . . . mutual resentment." She sighed. "I don't want to be like that with him. Especially today, when we should just be happy that he's well. I never want to be like that with him." She looked intently at Cristina. "But he still refuses to talk about my family. Lexie, Thatcher—"

Cristina raised an eyebrow and broke in. "Oh, it sounds just terrible. Imagine! Hot McSteamy sex and no Thatcher. However do you put up with it?"

"You're not listening," Meredith hissed back. "I can't talk about Thatcher; I can't talk about my mother; it turns Mark into an insane person." She sighed. "He won't help me . . . solve things. The one time I really tried talking to him he completely lost it and nearly punched the counter in his kitchen . . . which is made of _granite_ . . . and he more or less said he needed "space", which he _never _does, and he sent me away."

"And yet you're still with him," Cristina pointed out matter-of-factly. Meredith was her person, but sometimes she could be frustrating. From her perspective, this relationship with Mark that Meredith had made so much effort to get into seemed to work. And it seemed to make Meredith happy and less lost. And, although she was unlikely to let him know this any time soon, Cristina had come to almost like Mark and she could kind of see his point.

"I'm supposed to go over to Mark's house and . . . make up."

Cristina smirked again. "See . . . hot McSteamy sex," she said and Meredith rolled her eyes.

"But it's still there . . . the family thing. And he'll avoid and I'll avoid and it'll just come up again."

"Mer, we've been over this before," Cristina said with mock patience. "And, you know, everything is not about you."

"Excuse me?"

"Maybe he has reasons why he doesn't want to talk to you about your family." Cristina snorted. "God knows, I'd rather not spend any time talking about my mother—"

"That's just it," Meredith broke in. "He—"

"I'm still talking," Cristina snapped and Meredith made a face, but let her continue. "Maybe, after a year of having cancer, most of that feeling like shit, he really does just want to hang out with you and . . . be happy for a while. Had you considered that?"

There was a silence, then Meredith asked again,

"So, do you want to go to Joe's?"

"I suppose so." Anyway, now Cristina felt like a drink.

"I'll just have one drink and then I'll go and make up with Mark."

Cristina stood up and put the medical journal in her leather rucksack. "Okay."

"Thank you," Meredith replied, relieved, and stood up as well.

* * *

An hour and a half later, which had been spent watching Meredith drink too much tequila, Cristina returned from the restroom to find her deep in giggly conversation with a nondescriptly pretty blond guy Cristina recognized as an ER nurse.

When she caught sight of her, Meredith beamed and flung her arms in the air. "This," she said to the guy, "is my person. Cristina."

Cristina raised an eyebrow at the guy and smiled snarkily at Meredith. "Should I call you a cab?" she asked with feigned sweetness.

"No," Meredith said, tapping the bar decisively. "I want to talk to Jason." She beamed again and held out a hand in the guy's direction. "This . . ." she said in what Cristina thought was meant to be a confidential whisper, but was actually pretty loud, "is Jason. Don't tell anyone."

Cristina inhaled. Getting hammered together was one thing. Picking Meredith up off the floor was something she could do without. She hadn't had to do much of this since Meredith had been with Mark and she'd hoped she'd seen the end of it.

"Jason" stood up and put his hand on Meredith's shoulder. "Won't be a moment, sweetheart," he said, and sauntered towards the rest room, as Cristina looked on incredulously.

"Eww!" she said to Meredith. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm getting to know Jason," Meredith said, pouring another shot of tequila from the bottle Joe had unwisely left with her.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Mark right now . . . or even over an hour ago?"

"He doesn't want me." There was a trace of a self-pitying slur in Meredith's voice. "He doesn't want me and Jason does."

"Seriously, Mer," Cristina sighed, exasperated.

"'S deadly serious," Meredith said, drinking off the shot. "He won't talk to me and he doesn't want me. And . . ." She ran out of words as her eyes half filled with moisture. "And there's something else."

"Why don't you enlighten me?" Cristina asked, torn between the desire to stop Meredith doing something truly stupid and wishing she could just leave and go home.

Meredith sniffed. "Now that Mark's in remission . . . I mean, maybe he just stopped being a slut because he felt bad and thought he was dying. . . maybe he really _won't_ want me . . . I mean, Callie was very friendly with him in the elevator this morning . . . and . . . "

"Meredith!" Cristina snapped. This whole conversation was beginning to piss her off. "He's been in remission for five minutes. He had duodenal cancer. Seriously, if it's a problem for you that he's well, the five-year survival rate isn't that great."

Meredith choked back indignant tears. "That's horrible," she said. "I didn't mean . . . You're supposed to be my person."

"So what did you mean exactly?"

"Nothing," she shook her head sadly. "I just. . . " She trailed off sadly, shrugged and reached for the tequila bottle.

Cristina was about to take the bottle away from her when Meredith's cell phone rang. Meredith ignored it.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

Meredith shook her head and they sat in silence until the ringing stopped and the phone went to voicemail.

"Meredith," Cristina said, thinking that the caller had to have been Mark. "You're supposed to be at his place right now. If anybody's thinking about cheating, it's you, with the lovely Jason," she pulled a disgusted face. "We all know McSteamy's track record. But he obviously loves you. I don't think he's going to go all manwhore on you—unless you push him into it. And I think you should try to work this out with him, not sabotage it all just in case you get hurt."

While Cristina had been talking, Meredith had been more or less slumped on her barstool. But now she stiffened. "Cristina," she said in a low, serious voice. "You did a psych rotation in med school, same as me. Stop psychoanalyzing me and just be my friend."

"And a friend would what? Applaud your playing doctor with some nurse that you're just going to kick out of your house in the morning and spend weeks avoiding?" Cristina asked. "A friend would say go for it, screw up the best relationship you're ever likely to have and shit on someone who changed their life for you, just because you can't handle a little imperfection . . . a little ambiguity?"

"Now you're just talking about you and Burke," Meredith snapped.

"Really?" Cristina said icily. "I thought it was _me_ who was psychoanalyzing _you_?"

"A friend would be on my side. You're supposed to be my person."

"I _am_ your person," Cristina said. "But you don't want to hear what I have to say right now." She stood up, threw some money on the bar and picked up her rucksack. "Have a nice time with Jason," she said and left.

"I thought she'd never leave," Jason said, as he arrived back at the bar.

Meredith smiled weakly at him and took a breath. "Jason . . ." she said. "You're a good guy . . . I'm sure you're a good guy. But I'm not sure—"

"You're not sure you can talk to a guy in a bar?" he interrupted, sliding on to the barstool next to her and touching her shoulder again.

"We both know this isn't about talking."

He smirked. And it wasn't a nice smirk, really. She had someone whose smirk she loved and whose heart she'd captured and who'd captured hers right back and she wasn't even sure what she was still doing here. And yet, here she was.

"I have someone," she said and he shrugged, like this didn't matter. But it did. "Someone" was Mark. The man who made her feel safe, the man she'd broken up with Derek for because it was the right thing to do. The man who was the love of her life, she thought, probably. Except that people like her . . . people like Mark . . . didn't ever really get to have a love of their life, did they?

"Like I said." She reached for the tequila bottle and poured another shot, but then left it untouched. She didn't really want the drink; its presence was more like some kind of grown-up version of a security blanket. "I have someone. And anything we did together would just be me trying to make things easier for myself . . . releasing a pressure valve . . . And he doesn't deserve it and it would be inappropriate and I love—"

"Sometimes easy's good," Jason interrupted again in a drawly voice. Interrupting seemed to be his thing. "It's not always wrong to go the easy route."

Meredith sighed inwardly. His lines weren't very good and he delivered them with a kind of practiced, sleazy charisma that for a second made him seem like a pale parody of Mark. In a world where Mark didn't exist, she supposed she might think Jason was hot. But, really, he just reminded her of all the guys she'd picked up here when Derek dropped her for Addison. See, yet more history! There was so much history in everything between her and Mark; their whole lives were the product of history. He thought he was escaping it by refusing to talk to her, but it made it worse. If he would just let her talk . . . if he would talk to her . . . _then_ maybe they could escape. But he wouldn't and it left her thinking about it all the time. She'd known, the first time this came up, that nothing was ever really forgotten. It all just came back to haunt you and she was tired of being haunted. Just for one night she wanted to be un-haunted, relieved of the responsibility; free from thought.

She picked up her shot glass and took a sip. "Maybe you're right," she said, not looking at Jason. After all, her life had no more to do with him than with the bottle of tequila; they were both just means to an end. "Maybe sometimes easy _is_ good."

* * *

Title song: _**Ghosts in the Attic**__, _Leona Naess

_I could be wrong, you could be right  
Out of mind, out of sight  
Lord knows, I need you_


	3. It's Not That We're Scared

A/N: Thank you once again to EscapismRocks for all the wonderful beta-ing. Reviews very much appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 3—It's Not That We're Scared, It's Just That It's Delicate

Mark listened to Meredith's cell phone ring. He had a brief surge of hope when it seemed like she was finally going to answer. But this was immediately followed by intense disappointment when, instead of Meredith's real voice on the end of the line, he heard her voicemail message.

As the tone sounded, he cleared his throat, feeling stupidly nervous. "Uhhh . . . hey Mer," he said and then paused, not knowing what to say next, before adding the obvious, "it's me. Mark." No shit! he berated himself. "Uhhh . . . I . . . I thought we had plans and you're . . . uhhh . . . not here. So . . . maybe give me a call?" He paused again and inhaled. "I love you, Mer . . . I, uh, talked to Lexie today." He didn't know whether she'd like that or it would piss her off, but he wanted to let her know he'd tried, sort of, to talk about her father. He sighed. He was so out of his depth here. "I'm sorry I'm an ass . . . I . . . I really want to see you." He hung up and put the phone handset on the couch behind him.

It was just after 10 pm and he figured Meredith was around an hour late, give or take. For the second time that day, he recoiled at the image of himself as insecure, nagging boyfriend and resolved not to call her again. Love scared the shit out of him, but he'd known that going in. Meredith loved him; she got him; and she wasn't . . . love wasn't . . . going to fuck him over again. That wasn't the inevitable consequence of falling for someone. He took a deep breath. For God's sake get a grip, he thought.

An open, partially consumed bottle of Dom Pérignon was on the floor next to him, where he sat leaning against the couch, and he poured himself a glass and drank it down, before immediately pouring himself another one.

The champagne had been for Meredith . . . well, for him to get around Meredith and persuade her to forgive him for whatever it was he was supposed to have done. He groaned out loud. He knew damn well what he'd done. But all he wanted was to forget about it and get back on her good side and spend the rest of the evening making love with her. That was what the Dom was for. And, yeah, it was Addison's drink; but he figured it could work for Meredith too. Although, so far, the only person it was doing anything for was him. And he briefly wondered how, between early that morning and now, he'd gone from being in love to drinking alone in his apartment.

He drank half the new glass of champagne, then topped it up.

He could, he supposed, try to give Meredith what she wanted. He guessed he'd been trying to make a start on this by talking to Lexie. Although he was willing to bet Meredith wouldn't recognize this as trying. But what she didn't seem to understand and what he couldn't get past was the effect on him of talking about his family. It made him so angry and . . . desperate; made his stomach clench and his intellect shut down and a bunch of stupid thoughts and impulses run around his head. And it was no good her asking him why. Because, other than what he'd already told her, he didn't have anything else to say. His parents had been bastards. His father was cold and distant and pathologically, sneeringly indifferent. His mother was a fucked-up, psycho bitch. Even Derek knew that and had the tact to shut up about it! Mark had tried to avoid having any thoughts about them, until cancer and painkillers and love had forced unwanted memories to the surface of his mind, and he'd liked it just fine that way.

Almost on autopilot now, Mark drained his drink and picked up the bottle for another refill. When it turned out to be empty, he got up unsteadily, stumbling a little as he went into the kitchen to fetch a fresh one.

* * *

"God, what a crappy day!" Cristina flounced into her apartment, slammed the door behind her and dropped her leather jacket, rucksack and keys on the floor in a heap and stepped over them. Callie was stretched out on the couch watching TV and she raised her head in Cristina's direction, picked up the remote and muted the sound.

"I cooked," she said. "Paella. It's pretty damn good, if I do say so. And there's beer in the refrigerator."

Sometimes it bugged Cristina that Callie shared her apartment, but tonight she was almost glad to see her.

"You're like the perfect wife," Cristina snarked happily and Callie gave a hollow laugh.

"Yeah, well, George didn't seem to think so."

Cristina snorted. "Like Bambi's opinion on anything counts," she said. "He's an idiot. But you have to be a worse one for ever marrying him."

She went into the small kitchen, found a fork and, after removing the lid, started to shovel Paella into her mouth directly from the pan. She broke off long enough to turn around to the refrigerator, extract a beer, remove the top violently against the counter, and pour half the contents down her throat. Then she returned her attentions to the food.

"'S good," she said, indistinctly, through a mouthful of spicy chicken, shrimp and rice and Callie smiled complacently.

"Seriously, I mean it," Cristina went on. "About George . . . about all marriages, relationships, whatever, anything more than occasional screwing. Relationships suck and mess people up. We should all just work . . . and fuck sometimes, if the itch has to be scratched . . . and then work again."

She felt bad for Mark. She knew, because he'd told her when she'd yelled at him in the elevator that time, that he'd been lonely and screwed up before Meredith. But there was something independent about his manwhorishness that, in a weird way, she respected. Now he'd given all that up and look where it had gotten him. And, yes, damn it, Meredith was right, the whole thing stung her with memories of Burke. But, as far as she was concerned, that backed up her argument. Relationships suck!

"You want to talk about it?" Callie asked.

"No."

"Okay," Callie said, but then started playing with her hair and looking at Cristina.

"What?"

"It's just funny you should bring it up. I was in the elevator this morning and Meredith and Mark seemed like they're having problems."

"I don't want to talk about it," Cristina snapped.

"O-kay," Callie said again, but then added, "I just thought you might be interested, as she's like your best friend forever."

Cristina snorted again, then drank down the remainder of her beer and chucked her fork into the sink with a loud clatter.

"I gotta say," Callie mused, half to herself. "I wouldn't fight him off if he was pressed up against me in the elevator."

"Please! You really want to be that woman?"

"What woman?"

"The pathetic one with a crush on her one-night stand?"

Callie stared at her. "Seriously, Yang. Speak your mind, why don't you?" She frowned. "You know about that?"

"Everybody knows about that. George practically took out an ad. Anyway, I thought you hated it. Meredith said George said you said it was dirty."

Callie winced, but otherwise ignored the remark. "Mark's changed," she said. "Since the cancer. He's . . . less . . . predatory. More attractive. And we're friends . . . kind of." She glanced at Cristina and shrugged. She probably shouldn't be saying this to Meredith's best friend, but she didn't mean anything by it and Yang was, well, Yang. You could say pretty much anything to her. Still . . . maybe this was dangerous territory and they needed some kind of distraction. She glanced back at the TV and noticed _House_ was starting.

"Want to watch _House_ and try and make the diagnosis before they do?" she asked.

"Whatever," Cristina sighed, opening the refrigerator and extracting two more beers.

"Cool," Callie replied. "We can be pathetic together." She grinned and sat up and made room for Cristina on the couch.

"Shut up and watch _House_," Cristina said, handing her one of the beers, before she reached over, grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

* * *

Jason had Meredith pushed up against the wall of a stall in the rest room and she could feel something uncomfortably plastic jabbing her in the back. She was fully clothed, except that Jason had unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, and her skin crawled as his hand snaked between her legs and his hot breath hit her neck. A chill of revulsion crept down her spine at his insistent touch and she finally voiced what her heart and instincts had wanted to scream from the beginning, but insecurity and tequila had prevented until now. Because this wasn't the easy way; it wasn't a release; it was sad and desperate and unfair to Mark and inappropriate and—Jason's hand worked its way inside her panties—and gross.

"No!" she shouted, as firmly as she could manage, and shoved him away from her and began to hastily rearrange her clothes. "I can't . . . I don't want to . . . please go away." She could feel tears starting to emerge in her eyes and she hoped that he would be decent enough to leave her alone before she started to cry.

He moved away from her and laughed harshly. "'S funny, Dr. Grey," he said. "I'd heard you were easy."

It was only fury that allowed her to master the emotions that wanted to flood out long enough to say, with dignity, "Not easy enough to fuck you, apparently." She pushed past him and opened the stall door. "Get out," she said. "This is the ladies' room."

Jason shrugged. "I guess I'll see you round," he said derisively and, thankfully, left as Meredith slid limply down the white-tiled wall and burst into tears.

She wished that Cristina were still here. No, she wished she'd just gone to Mark's house like they'd discussed. And now she hated herself so much, and she was so confused, all she could do was sit here on the cold, not especially clean floor, and let the tears run down her face.

Eventually, though, she got up and peered into the rest room mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks streaked with mascara. She looked as much of a mess as she felt. She washed her face with cold water and dried herself off with a paper towel and then prepared herself to go back into the bar, wishing it was as easy to fix her emotions as it was to fix her face.

The bar was now nearly empty and there was no sign of Jason and she breathed such a loud sigh of relief that she caught Joe's attention.

"Meredith?" he asked, concerned. "You okay sweetie?"

She nodded but as she did so fresh tears started up, which she tried to wipe away.

"Come here," Joe said gently, indicating a bar stool. "Have some coffee."

Feeling numb, she nodded again and sat down where he had pointed. "Can you call me a cab, please Joe?" she asked shakily.

"Sure thing," he said. "Where to?"

"54th Avenue, South," she said. She didn't know how she was going to face Mark or what she was going to say to him, but his house was the only place she wanted to be right now.

Joe placed the cup of coffee in front of her and she drank the hot, comfortingly bitter liquid while he made the phone call.

When he came back to stand supportively with her, she whispered, "Please, Joe. Don't say—"

He cut her off with a gentle smile and shook his head. "Bar was busy, Mer. Didn't see a thing," he reassured her and briefly squeezed her hand.

* * *

Okay. Now he was getting trashed. He'd drunk the entire first bottle without really noticing and was now more than half way through the second. But it was only champagne, for God's sake, and he'd figured he could handle it.

Once, years ago, back in New York, he'd drunk what must have been a half bottle of scotch and then driven Derek's pregnant sister Molly to the hospital. Yeah, it had been dumb and irresponsible and had caused no end of bitching. But, he'd been the only person there; he hadn't known she was going to go into premature labor before he started drinking; and it turned out she'd have died if he hadn't gotten her to a hospital. And fuck! He'd done it, without getting pulled over and his inner frat-boy was still inanely proud of this at the age of forty.

Mark poured himself another drink . . . and, seriously, this had to be the last one . . . and brought it to his lips. Except this didn't quite come off as intended and he found himself with champagne soaking into his jeans and sufficiently little left in his glass that he was obliged to refill it again. Shit, he really was trashed!

The problem was that, in eleven months, since he'd started the immunotherapy program for real, he hadn't had more than one drink a day, if that, and his tolerance for alcohol was shot to hell. Maybe once Dom Pérignon had been a lightweight, over-hyped, barely alcoholic soda to placate women with. Now it affected him more like hard liquor. And once he'd pushed back the breast augmentation to treat the burns case, he'd been playing catch-up all day and had hardly eaten. So, yeah, he was trashed.

He decided it was time he called Meredith again, before the whole evening turned into a complete fuck-up and she arrived to find him passed out on the floor or puking—because as he remembered too well and too late, the IT meds and large amounts of booze didn't mix well— and neither seemed like much of a strategy for getting laid or for getting back on her good side.

He located the phone behind him on the couch and groped around for her number among the contacts, eventually finding it after a couple of false starts and hanging up twice on a bemused Derek.

Her phone rang and he smiled at the thought of hearing her voice. But she didn't answer and the only voice he got to hear, for the second time that night, was her voicemail recording.

"Yeah, well, fuck you very much Mer," he growled after hanging up and slinging the phone onto the floor, but instantly felt bad about this and mumbled "Sorry," although there was nobody there to hear him or care.

He decided to try not to think or feel anything about Meredith. It hurt too much. And it turned out to be easier than he expected, because once he'd finished off yet another glass of champagne, his thoughts and feelings weren't functioning anyway.

From his position slumped on its sunken floor, leaning against the couch, he looked around his living room and thought that it was ridiculously beautiful for a guy by himself who had previously lived more or less in on-call rooms and a hotel room. He almost felt like he didn't belong here and had a wave of nostalgia for his apartment in New York, and the ugly but familiar and very well used futon couch. He glanced upwards at the intimidating, spacious high ceiling and quickly looked down again. You couldn't hide in this damn place. Not unless you went out on the deck, anyway. And this thought and a longing for the deck and the lake captured his attention for moment, until he poured another glass of champagne and drank it down in one gulp, at which point he forgot all about going outside. Because something else touched the edge of his wrecked and fuzzy memory . . . a woman, very young, very blonde, beautiful in that frail, uptight, society way that he didn't go for, drinking champagne and laughing. For some reason, this mesmerized him and made him uneasy at the same time, and he replayed the image in his head, distracted, without knowing why, until the sound of a car passing outside in the wet street brought him back to reality, and he was left grappling with his rapidly fracturing understanding of what the hell he was supposed to be doing right now.

He knew he'd tried to call Meredith at some point. But now he couldn't remember whether he'd spoken to her or not. And if he had, he couldn't remember what she'd said, unless it was something about connective tissue allotransplantation, because he was pretty certain that someone had mentioned that to him sometime recently. Ah, what the fuck! He couldn't remember anything. At this point his vision became unreliable and, feeling massively dizzy, he let himself sprawl down onto the floor. When his head came in contact with the very soft, very expensive rug, he _did _remember something about not wanting Meredith to find him in this state. But he couldn't remember why any longer or why he'd even thought this.

Anyway, she wasn't here, was she? It couldn't possibly make any goddamn difference and he was way past caring.

* * *

"Hey," Meredith whispered, touching Mark gently on the shoulder.

He woke up explosively, bleary eyed and completely disorientated. "Please . . . please don't . . . I can't . . . " he stammered, obviously still dreaming and then woke fully and looked at her for a moment as if he didn't know who she was, and she took a few steps backwards away from him, her own guilt making her anticipate anger.

But Mark wasn't angry, only confused and dazed and suffering the first after-effects of drinking too much. The room started to spin and he pressed his palm against his forehead. "Ah, fuck," he muttered as his champagne induced headache stabbed him between the eyes. "I didn't know you were here. I must've fallen asleep," he grinned painfully at her, "well, passed out, I think. I kind of overdid it with the champagne."

"I'm sorry," Meredith said in a tiny voice that Mark was too befuddled to notice.

"S okay. Stuff comes up, right?" He smiled. "Was there an emergency or something?"

She didn't answer and when Mark looked closer at her, he realized that she was crying and that her face was already streaked with dried tears.

"Hey, no," he coaxed. "Don't do that, beautiful. C'mere." He sat up properly, trying to ignore the pain in his head and the beginnings of nausea in his stomach and concentrate on Meredith. When she didn't move towards him, but just stayed where she was, crying silently, he hauled himself up off the floor, reeling slightly when he first stood upright, and then took her in his arms.

"I . . . I . . . " she sobbed incoherently into his chest, trying to lose herself in his strength and warmth.

"Ssshh. It doesn't matter now. I was an ass, Mer."

"But I—"

"We can talk tomorrow," he interrupted her gently and pressed a kiss into the top of her head. "We've talked altogether too goddamn much today, don't you think?" He really needed to sit down again and he really didn't want to talk about families, not even if she was going to apologize or forgive him. He wasn't in any state to deal with it right now.

"No," she insisted. "I have to tell you—"

"Tomorrow, Mer," Mark said as, still holding her, he lowered himself back down onto the floor, leaned up against the couch and pulled Meredith close to him.

Meredith sighed. She was here with him; she was relieved. And she almost felt safe. Almost, except for her fears that what he couldn't talk about and she couldn't resolve was going to break them apart; and, almost, except for the knowledge that she'd come so close to cheating on him she might as well have done it.

"Mark," she said softly, determined to be honest with him.

He didn't answer and, when she craned her head, twisting a little in his arms, to look at him, she realized he'd fallen asleep, still holding her in a reassuring hug, with his head resting on her shoulder. She sighed and pushed back against him, nestling her body into his as much as she could manage. She could wait until he woke up. And, anyway, the contact with him was too good to break right now and she needed this, needed him, needed to remember that they loved each other.

She closed her eyes and let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "I love you, Mark," she said, very softly. "Please remember that when . . ." Her words trailed off. Right now it was simple; tomorrow it would be complicated again; worse than before, after what she'd done. But she didn't want to think about that now.

He must have heard her, because he stirred groggily. "Love you too," he murmured in her ear, before allowing his head to fall gently back on her shoulder and dozing off again.

* * *

Title song: _**Delicate**_, Damien Rice

_It's not that we're scared  
It's just that it's delicate_

_So why do you fill my sorrow  
With the words you've borrowed  
From the only place you've known_


	4. Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime

A/N: I felt the last chapter needed a little resolution and I hope this is it. I was a little impulsive about this, so it's unbeta-d and all my fault!

* * *

Chapter 4—Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes

Meredith sighed decisively. It was time. It was enough. She'd been ignoring and slighting her sister for a year now; for nine months, she'd been allowing her issues over her family to taint her relationship with Mark; now she'd gotten to the point where he told her he was in remission and she'd hardly noticed; when all he'd done was ask her about her day and she froze him out, and imagined all sorts of consequences, and nearly slept with Nurse Sleazebag in a rest room stall at Joe's! It was enough! She'd promised Mark when she'd persuaded him to give them a chance that she would try, even if they were, as he'd reminded her the previous morning, "both messed up beyond reason." But she wasn't trying; she wasn't trying and it was time that she did.

In a few weeks she would be a 3rd year resident and Lexie would be a 2nd year, assuming she passed her intern test. They were professionals; surgeons; and she was supposed to be a grown-up. A grown-up surgeon couldn't go around the hospital sticking her tongue out at her little sister. It was . . . inappropriate; and it was time she changed. And Cristina was right . . . and seriously, she'd even fallen out with Cristina now! . . . Mark had to have reasons why he didn't want to talk about his family. Up until now she had only been thinking about herself. And, yes, it would help her if they could talk. But only if he was ready. Maybe if she left it alone for a while, didn't insist, he _would_ talk to her. But what mattered now wasn't the past. What mattered was the present, the present and her future with Mark and it was about time that she changed.

Opening her eyes, she squinted a little at the early morning light flooding in through the windows. The sky was flecked with pink and orange and, from what she could make out, more or less cloudless. It had to be around 6 am, she thought, but that was okay because she had the day off. Thank God!

She felt oddly optimistic. Sometimes getting wasted and screwing up—_almost_ screwing up; she had to hang on to the almost for peace of mind—and crying your eyes out did that to a person. And she felt good. She didn't even feel all that hung-over. And she felt good about her life. She was going to be honest with Mark about Jason; she was going be a grown-up; and she was going to make good on her promise and really, seriously try.

It was only when she sat up that she realized she was no longer on the floor where she'd fallen asleep with Mark, but on his huge, comfortable couch, surrounded by pillows and covered with a soft, dark blue cashmere throw. She still had all her clothes on, but her boots had been removed and she melted a little when she grasped that Mark must have moved her to the couch and covered her with the blanket.

She heard noises from the kitchen; the French doors to the deck opening and closing and then the whirring of the coffee grinder. Familiar morning sounds. And she disentangled herself from the expanse of cashmere and stood up, only a little unsteadily, and padded into the kitchen, her socked feet slipping a little on the polished wooden floor.

* * *

Mark had paused half way through making the coffee and was standing, braced against the counter, with his eyes closed. He felt awful—which was stupidly fucked up and ironic considering it was the second morning of his remission, and entirely his own damn fault. But he still felt awful. His head hurt like a bitch; not just a headache, but actual pain, like an ice pick being driven through his temples. His eyes were so dry and sore, he could hardly open them. And despite the fact he'd spent half the night bent over the toilet puking up the best part of 300 dollars worth of champagne, his stomach was still churning and he still felt horribly sick. Clearly, immunotherapy and Dom Pérignon really didn't mix. He was starting the not-drinking thing back up today; and even when . . . if . . . the immunotherapy finally ended, he was never touching Dom Pérignon or any other fucking champagne ever again.

He was desperately tired. He'd just called in sick to work - which disturbed him, because it wasn't something he did; he'd even worked through most of his cancer treatment - because he was truly fucked-up and no patient deserved to be subjected to him today. He had slept a little—on the floor of his living room and then, even less comfortably, the bathroom—but it had been more a nauseated stupor than real sleep; and throughout the night he'd had dreams, which he could only half remember, that had kept waking him up in something like a panic. And the the feeling of this remained with him, along with a vague sense of depression that he couldn't shake.

He inhaled. That was enough. Introspection was never his thing and it was making him even more depressed. He stretched and dragged his fingers though his hair and turned his attention back to making coffee . . . and God did he need coffee right now.

"You want any help with that?"

Mark turned, a little startled, to see a cutely disheveled Meredith standing in the kitchen doorway.

He smiled weakly. "I think I need help with just about everything right now," he said. He'd intended this to be playful, self-deprecating; but somehow it came out as serious, pleading almost and he could see that Meredith was as taken aback as he was.

She walked over to him and stroked his arm. "Are you okay?" she asked gently. "You sound . . . you look—"

"I'm hung-over, Mer," he said. He didn't want to deal with whatever it was that was assaulting him. "That's all." He squeezed her shoulder, lingering for a moment to take her in, and then turned back to the coffee maker. "Are _you_ okay?" he asked her. He didn't really want to deal with _that_ now either, but she'd arrived last night hours late and upset and, knowing he'd been less than useless then, he felt obligated to try now.

Meredith bit her lip and then gave a small, determined smile. "I _wasn't_ okay," she said. "But I think I am now." She paused. "I'm sorry I didn't show up. I had . . . something to tell—"

"Damn it!" The coffee grinder had slipped out of Mark's hand and ground coffee was now all over the counter.

Meredith gave a nervous laugh, pleased enough to have an opportunity to buy some time. "I wouldn't have thought that would be so difficult for a renowned plastic surgeon," she teased him. "Especially one who makes coffee using the same grinder at least twice every day."

Mark nodded dryly. "I'm _very_ hung-over." Well, that and that his attention had wandered back to the feelings left over from his dreams. "I'm sorry. What were we talking about?" He rubbed a tired hand over his face and yawned.

"Here." She gently pushed him aside, swept the spilled coffee into her hands and deposited it back into the grinder. This accomplished, she started to make the coffee. "You should sit down," she said.

"Not going to argue with you, Mer," Mark said and lowered himself slowly onto one of the kitchen stools.

"I woke up on the couch," she said as she poured water into the coffee maker. "That was sweet of you . . . to move me up there. You didn't even wake me."

"You looked uncomfortable on the floor. And I thought I owed you one after passing out on you when you wanted to talk to me." He grinned lopsidedly. "I was an ass, Meredith. I know I keep saying that and I know it's not enough. But," he shrugged. "I was an ass and I'm sorry."

Meredith swallowed. "I'm sorry too," she said. "I . . . I . . . " _I almost cheated on you last night_, was what she needed and wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out yet. Instead, she launched into the resolutions she'd made when she woke up. "I've been unreasonable . . . to you, and to Lexie, but mostly to you . . . and I'm going to stop. It's time. I'm going to be a 3rd year; Lexie's going to be a resident; we're not little girls; we're surgeons and grown-ups and . . . it's time. And you don't have to talk to me about anything you don't want to. You and I are too important. The present . . . the future . . . everything." She searched his face for confirmation.

Mark nodded uncertainly. "I talked to your . . . Lexie yesterday," he said. "We were working on a kid with 2nd degree burns and I asked her some stuff. . . it seemed like a good time . . . and she mentioned Thatcher." He paused. "I told you in my voicemail." He hadn't meant it to, but his voice had a hurt quality to it as he said this. Everything he said this morning seemed to reveal some emotion that he had no control over.

"I know," Meredith said softly. "I heard it. I'm sorry. I was—"

"She said he was 'fine,'" Mark interrupted. He'd started on this conversation now and he might as well get it over with.

Meredith quirked an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "It seemed like she meant it the same way you do. If it's any consolation, I didn't get the impression you missed much there, Mer. If it was bad growing up with Ellis Grey, I'm guessing Thatcher wouldn't have improved it any."

But Meredith wasn't listening anymore; she was just smiling. "You're talking to me about my family," she said wonderingly.

"Well, yeah," he conceded, happy that he'd pleased her. "But it's just this one time." He succeeded in making this sound like a joke, but he hoped she got that he meant it. "You just said I didn't have to do it anymore and, believe me, I'm holding you to that."

* * *

They had moved out onto the deck and were drinking coffee in companionable silence, watching the lake splash against the shore.

Meredith had so far avoided . . . chickened-out-of . . . telling Mark about Jason and a little part of her . . . the part that always avoided . . . wanted to keep it that way. But that didn't fit with her new mood this morning; and it didn't fit with how she wanted them to be. In some ways it was difficult now to know whether it was Mark or Cristina who was her best friend—which meant that she'd screwed up with both her best friends in one day— and she couldn't lie to him. If she did, she would take something away from them, make them less. And yes, she might hurt him; she knew that. But she would hurt him worse if she kept it a secret, because he'd find out or she'd subtly change towards him and now that she'd resolved to try, really try, she had to try to do the right thing over this, as hard as that was for her.

"Mark."

"Hmmm." He was staring out at the lake.

"Last night . . . I went to Joe's."

"Yeah?" He laughed slightly and turned to her. "Is that unusual?"

"No," she said. "You have to listen to me—"

"I do, huh?" He smiled at her. The coffee and the fresh air and just being with her were all helping his hangover and his mood. He felt loved again; he felt sure of her and he wanted to relax with her and play. Her day off couldn't have come at a better time. And although he still felt bad about blowing off work, it was okay because he got to spend time with Meredith and they needed this. Maybe they'd get to make love after all; maybe a long, slow fuck . . .the sort of fucking you did with someone you loved with all your heart . . . and then a nap and then—

"Seriously, you have to listen to me."

"Okay," he said, focusing. "I'm all yours. You got me." He turned to her with an exaggerated expectant look and was shocked when he saw how agitated she was.

"You okay?" he asked.

Meredith swallowed. "I went to Joe's . . . with Cristina . . . and then she left," she said. "She left and I stayed and I talked to a guy, a nurse from the ER and . . . " she paused and swallowed again and then continued in a rush, "I thought about sleeping with him. I thought about sleeping with him and I almost did; I almost . . . we almost . . . he and I . . . almost had sex . . . in the ladies' room." She searched his face for a response. He was still looking at her, but she couldn't read his expression, except that he slightly raised one eyebrow. "It was nasty," she said. "It . . . he was nasty and I couldn't and I'm so sorry." She ran out of steam.

"You done?" Mark said.

Meredith nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks for telling me. That's . . . that means something." He took a sip of coffee and then grinned at her astonished expression. "Something wrong, Mer?" he asked.

"You don't mind?" she squeaked.

Mark considered. He did, in fact, mind. It hurt. But she hadn't gone through with it; and she'd told him. It counted for a lot that she told him. Especially after Addison and . . . ah, he didn't want to go over that. He and Addison were done; and Karev was his resident and kind of his friend. He understood. He was probably one of the few people that would. And, no, it didn't feel good to be on the receiving end. But he got it. Sometimes you just had to do something to forget about all the crap you were feeling. That's all he'd ever been doing when he'd cheated on Addison and he got it. Screwing someone . . . _almost_ screwing someone in a bar . . . didn't necessarily mean anything. It had never meant anything to him and, for his sake as much as for Meredith's, he was open to believing the same was true for her.

"You didn't do anything," he shrugged. "And you told me." He grinned again. "At least it wasn't O'Malley," he growled. "Now that would've pissed me off."

"Okay," Meredith gulped, her eyes huge and not quite daring to believe what he was saying. "That's . . . okay. That's good. Thank you."

He laughed. "So . . . now do you love me?"

"Yes," she said.

Mark smirked at her. "You want to fuck me instead? Seeing as you didn't get any last night?"

"Yes," Meredith said, but added, "Why are you being so nice?"

"I'm a nice guy, Mer," he said, determined to keep it light. He could deal with it all as long as they didn't discuss it.

"You're not," she teased him, her confidence gradually coming back. "You're Mark Sloan."

He clutched his heart playfully. "And after I forgave you," he said. "Okay, I'm not nice." He shrugged again. "Maybe it's just because I love you."

Meredith grew very quiet and then whispered, "I love you too. Seriously. And I'm sorry."

She got up from her chair, walked over to him and sat down on his lap. Perhaps she'd thought about kissing him, she didn't know, but once she felt him, felt his warmth, she was too overwhelmed to do anything.

"We're okay?" she asked tentatively.

He nodded and reached up his hand and stroked her face. "We're okay," he confirmed, as Meredith breathed a sigh of absolute relief, certain now that she had done the right thing.

* * *

Title song: _**Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes**_, Beck

_Change your heart  
It will astound you  
I need your lovin'  
Like the sunshine_


	5. Staying Awake to Chase a Dream

Chapter 5, Staying Awake to Chase a Dream

"Okay?" Mark asked, gently concerned, as he eased himself, slowly, carefully inside her. Meredith nodded quickly and gave him a nervous smile as she stroked his hair lightly with her fingertips.

But this wasn't working. Their playful relief from earlier seemed to have leached away, leaving behind anxiety, hesitancy and a kind of sad, desperate longing.

Making love had never been like this. This wasn't the long, slow fuck he'd envisaged. It was almost heart breaking; an insecure attempt at intimacy that had almost nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trying to put their self-doubt to rest.

Mark pulled back and then eased inside her again, still slow, but this time deeper. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against her hand as he repeated the motion, trying to find a rhythm, a pressure that could take them out of the haunted reticence that had gripped them both. Meredith gave a little gasp when he bumped against her cervix. And when he opened his eyes, to check again that she was all right, he saw that tears were now leaking down her cheeks.

"No, baby. Mer. Shush," he whispered. "It's okay. It's us." He caught up her other hand as it rested on the pillow and laced his fingers with hers. As he did so, her tears increased.

"You want me to stop?" he asked awkwardly.

"No," Meredith said and forced a smile. She lifted her hips, almost frantic to keep contact with him, but unable to let herself go. "Please don't. It's just . . . " She faltered and bit her lip, before whispering, "I'm so sorry." And she pressed her eyes shut, trying to get rid of the tears.

Mark held her hand tighter and dipped his head towards hers. He lightly kissed first one then the other eyelid and then nudged her nose tenderly with his.

He couldn't use words to reassure her. He didn't want her to know how much her almost cheating hurt him; he didn't want to know it himself or think about it. He just wanted her back; his lover and, somehow more importantly, his friend. He was afraid, if he talked, he'd screw all of this up by saying something he'd regret.

Cradling her head with his free hand, Mark tangled his fingers in her soft, blonde hair, trying to communicate love and comfort through his touch. But she was too tense to experience any real pleasure. There were none of the little smiles he was used to when they made love face to face. And, although she moaned a little after a while, he seriously doubted that she'd come. But who the hell knew? He'd had sex so many different ways in his life, but never anything quite like this quiet desperation.

Uncertainty about Meredith, the mutual need for affirmation and the weird, attenuated quality of their lovemaking meant that it took Mark forever to come. When he finally managed it, with a stifled shudder, Meredith burst into tears.

Freaked out and almost moved to tears himself by the intensity of the whole thing, Mark rolled onto his side, pulling Meredith with him. Still inside her, wanting to feel her and sensing that she also needed this raw connection, he curled around her and pulled the comforter over them both.

"Let's get some sleep," he whispered and felt her nod in reply.

* * *

When Mark woke up a few hours later, he was still wrapped around Meredith. She was asleep, and snoring, and he snuggled against her and, pulling her even closer to him, held her tight and buried his face in the back of her neck. He wanted to stay exactly like this, with her, and pretend it was nine months ago, when everything was right between them and there was no tension or subjects that made them insane.

He loved her. There was no doubt about that. But life had a way of screwing with what he loved, with a little help from his own compulsion to fuck up everything good that came his way. And, yeah, pretending was dumb and naïve, but for now it felt good. He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep, practically clinging to Meredith like she was some kind of lifeline.

* * *

_He felt small. Small and powerless and scared, and he didn't understand. She wanted something he didn't know how to give her. He wished he did know, because then she'd maybe be happy again and nice to him, and not scary and weird. She smelled faintly of the sparkling drink that was in her glass. And she lost her balance and spilled a little on him and wiped it off him with her hand, laughing slightly. He didn't much like the smell. He didn't much like her when she was acting how she was now. But she could be nice sometimes, when he did what she wanted him to. When she was nice, he felt safe and loved for a while, even though it always came to an end. Her long blonde hair tickled his face as—_

"Mark, wake up." Meredith stroked his arm, trying to rouse him without startling him. He was having some kind of bad dream and moaning in his sleep.

After several more attempts, he woke up, as wildly as he had the previous night, and sat up abruptly. He didn't seem to know where he was and Meredith noticed that he was trembling.

She sat up too and put an arm gently around his shoulders, as he bent his head and rubbed his eyes.

"Were you dreaming?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he said, as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I guess. I can't remember." He could remember the feelings though; the fucking terrifying feelings that were still with him; and blonde hair, long and fine like the girl had in his drunken memories from the previous night. As he remembered the girl, the stink of champagne suddenly washed over him. He had no idea whether it was from his own pores or from his memories, but the smell sickened him and made him gag.

He clamped his hand over his mouth and got up quickly, trying to swallow back the urge to vomit until he reached the bathroom. Lifting the toilet seat so rapidly that it smacked against the wall, Mark sank to his knees and threw up a mixture of bile, coffee and stale champagne, then slumped exactly where he was, resting his head on his arms while Meredith, who had followed him, knelt down next to him and stroked his back soothingly.

This was so fucked up. He really had only himself to blame but, so far, being in remission was more or less exactly like having cancer. Ironic how life ended up sucking, however much it looked like it was going to change for the better.

He felt like crying, but he didn't want to upset Meredith. Instead, he briefly squeezed her hand, then hauled himself up to sit on the edge of the tub and reached across to the sink for his toothbrush and toothpaste.

"I'm officially giving up on today," he said hoarsely as he squeezed toothpaste along the brush. "Let's just go back to bed." Because, really, all he wanted out of life right now was to hold her and fall asleep and hope that he didn't throw up again and wasn't assaulted by any more dreams.

Except at that moment the sound of a pager blared out from the bedroom.

Mark groaned. "Seriously? Who the hell is that? You're have the day off and I'm sick and they should fucking know better."

Meredith shrugged. "Emergencies happen," she said. "Anyway, it's probably only Cristina. She sometimes pages me when she can't find me." Although she realized with a pang that Cristina was unlikely to page her after last night. She got up from her position on the floor and said, "I'll go check."

She took long enough that Mark had time to finish in the bathroom and crawl back under the covers. He could hear the faint buzz of her talking on her cell phone downstairs and assumed she'd been right about it being Yang. And he sighed and stretched out, one arm behind his head, comforted by the feeling of being enveloped in blankets.

But when Meredith came back in, precariously carrying two cups of coffee, a glass of water and a pager, she had an apologetic look on her face. She sat down on the bed and handed him the water, before saying, "That was Alex. For you. I called him back. I hope that was okay?"

Mark nodded and Meredith smiled, reassured that she hadn't overstepped her bounds.

"He wants you to go in. He thinks your breast augmentation patient may have incipient sepsis."

* * *

"Sorry," Alex mumbled as Mark came to a stop next to him, engrossed in the patient's chart. "I wouldn't have . . . you know. I knew you were sick. But I . . . sorry."

Mark glanced up and narrowed his eyes. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he asked. "Paging me was the right thing to do."

"Yeah, I know. But seriously, you look like shit."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Karev. You on the other hand are looking very pretty today."

Alex was, of course, correct. Mark still felt like shit. If someone had given him the choice right now, he would have elected to spend the rest of his life in bed. But there wasn't any need to load this on his resident. Alex had been very perceptive in identifying incipient sepsis. It was possible that his quick response could save the patient's life and Mark's ass.

Mark continued to scan the chart until he felt Alex's eyes resting on him and looked up again.

"Something I can help you with?" Mark asked.

Alex shook his head, then nodded, then said "Yeah," but without adding anything else.

"Yes?" Mark prompted him impatiently.

"Did you . . . sorry to ask . . . did you, like, have a relapse or something?"

"Or something?"

"Yeah." Alex shifted around before adding, "You know. Cancer."

Mark smiled. The more they worked together, the more he liked Alex and he was touched by his tongue-tied concern.

"No. I'm fine. In fact, I'm in remission," he said, realizing that he'd neglected to tell anyone except Meredith and Richard Webber, since his fight with Meredith and a heavy workload had pushed it out of his mind.

Alex gave him such an uncharacteristically warm smile, that Mark felt obligated to be honest with him.

"All that's wrong with me is that I'm miserable as hell and I got so wasted last night I couldn't even make a cup of coffee this morning. I thought you and the patients could do without me for a day."

When Alex raised an eyebrow at him and coughed, clearly embarrassed, he added, "What can I say? You have a wreck for a boss, Karev. But a wreck with cool surgeries."

Mark groaned inwardly as he heard his words. In his head, this had sounded deflecting and witty. Out loud, it just sounded depressed and self-hating. He decided that the best advice when you were in a hole was to stop digging and pointed to the chart, as though the entire conversation hadn't just happened.

"What can you tell me about sepsis occurring after breast augmentation?"

Alex scowled at him huffily. "Dude, _I_ diagnosed it!"

Mark smirked and said, "Dude. Why don't you humor me?" and this effort to act like his sarcastic self made both him and Alex instantly more comfortable.

"Well, Valdatta and Thione published a study suggesting that patients who underwent augmentation by fat injection were more vulnerable to sepsis and there's a lot of other data to support that. So far, though, I haven't been able to identify an underlying cause."

"You read _Aesthetic Plastic Surgery_?" Mark asked, pleasantly surprised. Alex's commitment to plastics pleased him and made him feel like he'd done something good professionally. He needed this right now. Because he, Mark Sloan, formerly the best plastic surgeon on the east coast, was the stupid prick who had chosen this method for the augmentation, rather than one of the newer and safer options. In his defense, he'd wanted Alex to see a fat injection procedure; but, if he was honest, he'd also wanted to show off his skills. But when the time came, he'd gotten so backed up over the burns case, he'd kind of rushed through it.

He inhaled and told himself to focus. "Treatment?" he said.

"Broad-spectrum anti-infectives by IV," Alex said. "The lab guys haven't isolated an infective agent yet."

Mark sighed and skimmed through the chart again. "What do you think the underlying cause could be?" he asked.

"Breast abscesses?" Alex said, not entirely certain. "Although it's pretty soon—"

"But you're probably right," Mark interrupted. "Caused by?"

"Fat necrosis and inflammatory reaction?" Alex suggested.

"Yup," Mark agreed. Alex was really getting good at this. "Prep her. We'll do an ultrasound first. Then, if we're lucky, we can treat any abscesses we find with guided needle aspiration. The alternative being?"

"Surgical incision and drainage. But needle aspiration would be preferable, to avoid immune overload."

Mark nodded and handed over the chart. "Good work," he said. "Just for that, I think it's time I bought you coffee." It _was_ time. Not least because he felt pathetically grateful to Alex that, right now, he represented the single part of his life that still seemed to work.

They turned to go in opposite directions and then Mark turned back. "Karev," he called, and then looked briefly at the floor, slightly embarrassed. "How do you take it?"

Alex smirked. He liked Mark. He was an incredible surgeon and, once you got past all the bullshit, a good guy and a good teacher. The last couple of days, Alex had noticed that he'd been kind of off his game and he felt bad for him, especially now that it turned out Mark was in remission. He'd been through a lot with the cancer and dealt with it better than Alex thought he would have done. He thought maybe Mark was having a delayed reaction to the cancer—remission got some patients that way, especially the stoical ones—and a part of him would have liked to say something supportive. But sarcasm was what they did best, kind of a comfort zone, and that seemed the best way to go right now.

"I've worked for you nearly every day for a year," he said. "And you don't know how I take coffee? Kind of screws with your caring boss act, doesn't it?"

Mark gave a short, dry laugh. "If I cared about you, Karev, I would have bought you coffee before now," he snarked.

He was about continue when he felt another wave of nausea and he closed his eyes and reached out to steady himself against the wall. As he stood there, willing away the horrible queasy feeling, he briefly saw again the young, blonde girl, drinking champagne and laughing and, despite the fact he still felt sick, opened his eyes to escape the image. It still unnerved him, perhaps even more than before, and he still had no fucking clue why or who she was.

He swallowed, ignoring the concerned look on Karev's face. "Just tell me how you take your coffee," he said, "or you'll find yourself drinking vanilla latte."

"How it comes, cream no sugar," Alex said, and added an awkward, "Thank you." He felt really bad for the guy and he didn't know what to say. Sarcasm didn't seem right anymore.

As Mark made his way to the coffee cart, the nausea passed and he started to feel a little better. Physically, that is. Emotionally, it took nearly all his willpower not to retreat into the nearest supply closet. He wished, beyond anything, that he could not be a surgeon today, not have to talk to anyone, not have to feel or think and just take a day off from his life. The only place he really wanted to be was in bed. And right now, he was shocked to realize, he didn't give a damn whether that was with or without Meredith.

* * *

Title Song:**_ Falling Away With You_**, Muse

_Staying awake to chase a dream  
Tasting the air you're breathing in  
I know I won't forget a thing_

_Promise to hold you close and pray  
Watching the fantasies decay  
Nothing will ever stay the same_


	6. Wake Me Up, I'm Living a Nightmare

Chapter 6, Wake Me Up, I'm Living a Nightmare

Mark sat on one of the benches outside the hospital, breathing in the early evening air and trying to feel human or as close to human as he could manage right now.

He was dressed to go home and, realizing now that he was chilled with cold, even though the ambient temperature was on the warm side, at least for Seattle, he zipped up his leather jacket fully and hunched into it, jamming his hands into the pockets. The nausea had passed, thank God. But now, on top of the creeping cold, he had a pounding headache. He hadn't been wrong when he'd described himself to Alex as a wreck.

Alex was now monitoring the breast augmentation patient. Correction. The breast abscess with incipient sepsis patient and, thanks to Mark's flawed judgment, incipient fucking lawsuit, most likely, as well. The needle aspiration had gone without a hitch and the anti-infectives were beginning to do their job. But somehow Mark doubted that having her life saved by the surgeon who'd effectively threatened it in the first place would cut it with Mrs. . . . what's-her-face . . . Carmichael, and certainly not with her belligerent husband. He had paced up and down muttering about Richard Webber and glaring at Mark until he'd wanted to hide somewhere and not have to keep up the act of being the confident, arrogant Head of Plastics. Amazingly, and to Mark's eternal gratitude, Alex had manufactured an emergency for him to go to and volunteered to deal with the husband himself. Clearly, he would have to buy his resident coffee more often.

Thoroughly cold now and frustrated, Mark jiggled his left leg rapidly. He shouldn't have left Alex holding the fort. But he honestly couldn't cope any longer. Everything was turning into a fucked up mess again. Exactly where he'd been before the cancer, before Meredith, except now he couldn't even do his job properly. He stopped jiggling and kicked aggressively at the ground, then slumped forward and buried his head in his hands. Life sucked. Now more than ever. The despair of it all felt like a harsh blow delivered to an already sore gut.

He sighed heavily. He had literally no idea how to fix things with Meredith. Hell, he couldn't even fix his own emotions. The images in his head freaked him out; waking up scared shitless freaked him out; Meredith freaked him out; and, whatever he said about understanding, the thought of her even wanting to screw some guy at Joe's tore at his insides.

So he sat in the same position, freezing and despondent, until he became aware of someone standing close by and, when he looked up, found that Derek was there.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked. His eyes showed concern mixed with only a little gentle amusement. "You seem . . . distracted."

Mark tried to think of an excuse. Because, really, how the fuck could he explain to Derek that he'd screwed it up with the second woman he'd stolen from him?

But he couldn't. He didn't have the energy or inventiveness to do anything more than utter a truncated version of the truth.

"No," he mumbled and dragged a hand through his hair, shooting Derek a desperate look.

The tragic irony was that the person Mark most wanted to confide in was the last person he could. And that was his fucking fault as well. God it was all so complicated! He wished that his stomach didn't lurch in protest at the thought of drinking. Because the only solution he knew for how he felt right now was to go to Joe's and try to drown himself in scotch. Since that wasn't an option, he was completely at a loss.

"Anything I can help with?" Derek asked and sat down next to him on the bench. "You'd tell me if there was any change; with the cancer; if anything was wrong?"

"Ah, fuck Derek! I should have told you." Mark closed his eyes briefly and sighed at this further evidence of his own hopelessness where any kind of relationship was concerned.

"Told me what?" Derek asked anxiously.

"Nothing bad," Mark reassured him and smiled slightly. "Turns out Julia's clinical trial kicks ass as much as she thinks it does." The smile turned into a self-conscious grin. "She tells me I'm in remission."

Derek's eyes softened with surprise and pleasure, but then clouded slightly as he considered. "But—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Mark snapped irritably, his few seconds of optimism vanishing as he anticipated what Derek was about to say. "It's only been a year. It's too soon to call it remission." He shot a hurt, cynical smile at his friend and added, "The world could get lucky and I could still die a horrible death."

When he saw Derek's wounded, incredulous look, Mark groaned. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for. I'm having a really bad day. Not that that's any kind of excuse." He forced himself to seem warm and hopeful. "Unofficially, I'm in remission. Julia can't find any evidence of cancer."

Now Derek just sat and stared at him, his eyes showing such deep emotion that it made Mark sufficiently uncomfortable to need to joke.

"You doing okay there, man? Should I go inside and fetch a nurse or something?"

Derek shook his head very slightly, not in answer to Mark's attempt at joking, but in wondering response to his own thoughts.

"If somebody had asked me, a year ago, how I would feel about this," he said slowly, "I don't know quite what I would have said." He grimaced as suddenly he recollected his callous reaction when Meredith first told him Mark had cancer. "Actually, I suspect I do," he said sheepishly. "But it wouldn't have been the truth. I never really felt that way."

Mark glanced down at the ground and shrugged a little. It was a long time ago and they'd moved on since then and he understood.

Derek waited until Mark met his gaze again, and then said. "Now, though, I don't know quite how to tell you . . . " He laughed slightly and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "I don't know how to tell you how pleased I am."

A smile lit up Derek's face and he laid his hand on Mark's arm, leaving it there long enough and firmly enough to fully convey the friendship he felt.

Mark felt overwhelmed. Because, yeah, he and Derek were good now. But he hadn't expected this genuine affection. It seemed like he had his brother back again, if only for the moment. And as his mind scrambled to process what was happening, an impulse made Mark blurt out his need for advice.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Derek shrugged.

"Tell me if it's, you know, inappropriate," Mark said awkwardly. "It's just that—"

"Right," Derek interrupted. "Because there's really something you could do or say that's more inappropriate than the things you've already done." He was teasing; it was friendly sarcasm; it was how they used to talk all the time. But it brought Mark suddenly back to reality. However desperate he felt, talking to Derek about Meredith was beyond tactless.

He shook his head. "Never mind," he said quietly. "It's not the sort of thing—"

"That inappropriate, huh?" Derek said, raising his eyebrows and still friendly. He chewed his bottom lip as he pretended to consider. "How about I let you have one get out of jail free card? In honor of your remission."

When Mark still hesitated, giving Derek a doubtful look, he added, "So let's get this over with shall we?"

Mark took a breath. It _was_ tactless, but he needed some kind of help with this. "What . . . when you . . . how would you?" he struggled, to Derek's amusement, before he managed, "How would you fix something with a woman? Something you'd fucked up. That you wanted to fix."

At first Derek just stared at him, then erupted into spluttering laughter.

Acutely embarrassed now, Mark muttered, "Like I said, never mind. It doesn't—"

"No," Derek broke in, wiping his eyes. "I said 'get out of jail free' and I guess you did say it was inappropriate." He paused. "Let me see," he pantomimed someone in deep thought. "How to fix things with a woman?" He looked at Mark and gave a playful, if dry smile. "So far, Mark, women I'm having problems with sleep with you. So I'm not really sure I have much wisdom to offer you. You're kind of ahead of me on that one."

He laughed again, pleased with his own wit.

"I guess we shouldn't go there, huh?" Mark sighed and stared down at his hands, feeling himself blush.

"That might be a good idea" Derek replied, but then relented a little when he saw Mark's discomfort. He and Meredith were over. He guessed he could be a little generous and make good on his 'get out of jail free' offer.

He touched Mark briefly on the arm to get his attention and, when Mark lifted his eyes, said, "I wouldn't worry about it. Meredith obviously loves you." He paused. "I'm sure you'll work it out, whatever it is."

"Yeah?" Mark ventured uncertainly.

Derek nodded confidently. "Now, can we please talk about something else?"

Mark shifted around awkwardly. "Can I ask you one more thing?" he asked.

"Not about Meredith?"

"No."

"Or Addison?"

"No," Mark said, losing patience a little. It wasn't only Derek this was difficult for. "I get it, okay? I'm sorry. This is something else though."

"Okay," Derek conceded. "In that case, fire away."

Mark inhaled. "I keep seeing this picture in my head," he said. "Of a woman; a girl. And I have no idea who she is. But I get the feeling I know her from somewhere, and I was thinking maybe you'd recognize her if I described her."

They both became aware at the same time that Mark's hands were now shaking a little and he jammed them back in his pockets to stop the movement and evade Derek's scrutiny.

"She's really young; nervous looking and kind of . . . " Mark swallowed. "She scares the shit out of me, Derek, and she's not even doing anything scary. She's just drinking champagne and laughing." It was stupid, but the shaking he'd concealed inside his pockets became worse and a chill ran down his spine as he re-lived the dream.

"Do you think you could be having a delayed reaction to the cancer, now that you're in the clear? That sometimes happens." Derek asked, his voice betraying concern. "Maybe you should take a little time off? To adjust."

The idea that the crappy state of his life right now could be down to something medical and easily explained was momentarily heartening to Mark. Julia had never mentioned anything like that. But then her people skills weren't exactly stellar, especially when she was psyched about something, as she had been about the success of her clinical trial. But tempting as it was, he knew in his heart that wasn't it.

He shook his head and brushed Derek's suggestion aside. "Like I said," he repeated. "It seems like she's someone I knew once. I've just forgotten."

Derek studied Mark for a moment. His behavior worried him; and physically he looked terrible. But he decided pressuring Mark would be a non-starter and went along with his question.

"What does she look like? The woman?" Derek asked.

Mark swallowed. "Long blonde hair, skinny, society type. You know." He grinned briefly. "The in-bred kind that used to come to the practice in family groups for the exact same nose job."

"How about Savvy?" Derek suggested.

"Seriously, Derek. I think I can just about remember Savvy." He smirked. "I take it you'll be sharing your thoughts on her DNA with Weiss?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Not the in-bred part. But she's blonde and kind of a society type, I guess. And you haven't seen her in ages."

"It's not Savvy," Mark stated.

"Well, then . . ." Derek looked at Mark apprehensively.

"What?"

"Your mom looked sort of like that, when we were kids."

Derek thought this suggestion might upset Mark and he was surprised when he just shook his head dismissively. But there was an edge to his voice when he said, "My _mother_ never looked that that. This girl's really young. Like _really_ young. And she looks, I don't know, innocent, in a weird, crazy kind of way."

"Your mother has to have been young once," Derek said cautiously, careful not to use the affectionate term "mom" again. It had slipped out before. Mark hadn't called his mother "mom" for as long as Derek could remember. "My mother," "Pamela" or "that fucking bitch" were more commonly used, if he talked about her at all.

"Yeah, well, that's open to debate," Mark replied. "But, anyway, she's a cynical, gin-soaked bitch in all my memories of her. And," he shrugged a little helplessly, "it feels like I remember this girl. But, seriously. Thanks, but never mind" He'd had enough now and Derek's speculations were pissing him off. How was it that all conversations these days came down to family? "I guess I'll work it out. Or not. It's fine."

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments, Derek still concerned and wondering how to broach the subject, and Mark uncomfortable and frustrated. Then, just as Derek was debating whether to get up and leave, Mark's cell phone rang, startling them both.

He squeezed his eyes shut before taking it out and answering it, literally praying that it wasn't Alex calling to say the sepsis had worsened. When he saw the caller id, and saw that it _was _Alex, his stomach clenched and his pulse quickened and, when he flicked the phone open and answered "Sloan," he had to make a supreme effort to sound like himself.

"She's fine," Alex's voice came over the receiver. "Fever's down; white blood cell count is normalizing. She's fine. Husband's a total dick, though. He's been in with the Chief for like an hour now."

Mark rubbed his face with his free hand. He didn't like being the target of a possible lawsuit. It wasn't something that happened to him. He was that good. Or at least, he had been. But he'd been in Richard's position before now, especially since arriving at Seattle Grace, and it was usually easy enough to find some kind of compromise that wasn't too damaging.

"Good work," he said to Alex. "And, uh, thanks. Go find an intern to watch her and get some rest. I'm going home but page me if you need me." He clicked the phone shut and put it away.

"Okay?" Derek asked.

"'S fine," Mark said, not wanting to discuss it. "It was just Karev about a patient."

A sudden rush of relief washed through Mark. He hadn't quite realized how pent up he'd been. He almost never lost patients and the prospect, however distant, of losing one today had felt like the final deathblow to his ability to cope. As the relief flooded in, all his earlier, mistaken weariness towards Meredith disappeared and was replaced by a physical urgency to touch her and be with her. He still longed to be in bed, but now he couldn't bear the thought of it without her. He needed to be with her so much it pushed everything else from his mind. All he wanted, all he could think about, was holding her in his arms and losing himself in the kind of deep sleep that was only possible when she was with him.

He stood up. "I've gotta go," he said, knowing that he sounded irrational and not caring, even when he noticed Derek's worried expression. "Seriously. I can't explain. I've just gotta go."

He picked up his bag and smiled briefly at Derek. "Thank you," he said. "You . . . just thank you." Even if his mind hadn't been on Meredith, he would have found it difficult to express his thanks. As it was, it was impossible.

Derek nodded slowly. "Look after yourself," he said softly. "You really should think about taking a few days off."

"Yeah, maybe," Mark said. It wouldn't be such a bad idea. It wasn't like he was doing much good at the hospital, based on the last twenty-four hours' track record. "See you later, okay?"

Derek nodded again and gave him one, last inquiring look before turned and walked away.

As Mark lowered himself into the driver's seat of the Carrera, he knew with absolute certainty that he had to make things right with Meredith. She was the single most important thing in his life and he couldn't lose her. He turned on the ignition and put the car in gear. The day had drained him of every resource he had, except this certainty of his love. He needed get home, curl up in her arms and sleep. After that, he would do whatever it took to fix things with her. Literally whatever it took. He would even let her into his past. Because if that's what she needed to feel secure with him again, he didn't have a choice.

- - - - -

Title song: _**Time of Dying**_, Three Days Grace

_On this bed I lay  
Losing everything  
I can see my life passing me by  
Was it all too much  
Or just not enough  
Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare_

_I will not die  
I will survive_

_I will not die, I'll wait here for you  
I feel alive, when you're beside me  
I will not die, I'll wait here for you  
In my time of dying_


	7. All My Feelings Rose Today

Chapter 7, All My Feelings Rose Today

Meredith stood in Mark's shower. She had been almost motionless, lost in a fog of thoughts, for the past five minutes or more. But now she roused herself, turned her face up towards the powerful jet of hot water and allowed it to pound over her, trying to will herself into some kind of clarity. The shower was amazing. Everything in Mark's house was amazing. Everything, she thought with a pang, except her! Her, Meredith Grey, who despite all her promises to Mark and resolutions to herself, had somehow managed to turn them into a mess of bad sex, bad dreams and wretched awkwardness.

She'd wanted to make love with him, but all the euphoria of forgiveness and making-up had worn off and, stuck somewhere between guilt and resentment, she'd tensed up and she just couldn't. Her body had frozen and her mind had drifted back to Jason and everything that led up to him. Cristina. Lexie. Her family. Mark on the ride to work and all the months of avoidance that had led up to that. And all her feelings had crowded in on her at once.

See! A little voice broke into her thoughts. That's what he got for refusing to talk to her about her family. Not horny, in-love Meredith; but almost-cheating, frigid, crying Meredith. Because, yes, she had a part to play; but Mark wasn't blameless. It took two to break a connection.

Annoyed now, she turned off the shower violently, stepped out, selected a huge, fluffy white towel and began to dry herself quickly. But the thick, soft cotton rubbing against her skin had a calming effect. She chuckled to herself as she realized that the huge, enfolding towel, warm from the heated towel rail, reminded her of Mark and that she missed him. Sadly and, at the same time, in that good way that comes with love that you can't do without. Because she couldn't do without him and he . . . they were too important not to resolve all this.

So she decided. First, when Mark got back, to make love. Horny, sexy love. With all the passion and certainty and wild carried-awayness that had been missing this morning. Second. After that. A little while after, when the time was right, to find some way that didn't freak him out to talk about her past, their pasts; to try to convince him that, if they did this, things between them would be better not worse. That he would have more of her, know her better and they'd be stronger. That had to make sense to him, right? She knew she'd told him that he didn't have to talk about it and she'd meant it. But the elephant was in the room now. Perhaps never more so since they had tortured themselves through sex this morning. And they had to get rid of the elephant if they wanted to be them again. They could coax it out rather than force it, and when he was ready. But they had to get rid of it.

She threw the towel in the hamper and wriggled into the luxurious white bathrobe Mark had bought for her, wrapping her hair up in a second towel, and exited the steamy bathroom.

With a sigh, she lay back on the bed, deliberately choosing Mark's side and smiled when her nose detected a trace of his scent. Comforted, at least a little, comfortably drowsy from the hot water and enjoying the feeling of being perfectly clean, she allowed her eyes to close.

It was a little weird that _she_ was the one pushing to communicate. Because she didn't talk. She _never _talked. At least, only to Cristina and even then often only around the edges of things. Now here she was, communicating, wanting to communicate with all her heart. Wanting to tell Mark everything and work it out with him and let him know everything about her.

Karma really could be a bitch, she thought, a little guiltily, as she remembered Derek trying to get her to talk.

But that was in the past. She was different and she was going to convince Mark. After they'd had mind-blowingly dirty, happy sex. She was going to convince him and everything was going to be all right again. The doubt occurred to her that this could just be wishful thinking; the result of the delicious, post-shower torpor that was stealing through her body. But she brushed it aside. If it was, it was nice wishful thinking, and she wanted to keep hold of it as she slipped into a dreamy doze.

* * *

When Meredith woke up later, disorientated, the light through the window indicated that it was early evening. And when her eyes found the clock and focused, she realized that several hours had passed.

She swallowed down the sense of panic that was building a little in her chest and called out "Mark!" in case he was somewhere in the house. Not that he could realistically hear her, especially out on the deck. But her sense of aloneness let her know he wasn't there. Somehow, when he was there, even at the other end of the house, she knew it. The house felt full, the temperature warmer by degrees; now it felt empty and . . . well, not cold exactly. This house was never cold, except when the state-of-the-art air-conditioning was running. But _she_ felt cold and she pulled the bathrobe around herself and shivered a little. She missed Mark. This time not in the good way but almost frantically. She wanted him with her. Even if they didn't talk, she didn't care. She wanted him to hold her and smile at her in the way only he could and touch her face, and brush her hair behind her ear. And she wanted him inside her. She wanted show him that she _did_ love him, and let him feel it and know it for sure.

She sighed and crumpled back against the pillows, but then jumped when her cell phone rang and its vibrate setting jarred noisily against the nightstand. She grabbed it without checking the caller id, certain that it was Mark, and flipped it open.

"Hey," she said, investing the word with all the feeling she could pour into it. "I missed you."

There was a pause, and then Cristina's slightly cautious voice said, "Meredith?"

Torn between desperate disappointment that it wasn't Mark and pleasure and relief that her friend had called her, Meredith exhaled her name into the receiver. "Cristina."

There was another pause, and then Cristina asked, "Are you all right?"

"I am." Meredith nodded emphatically, determined to make it true.

"Are you with the nasty naughty nurse?"

"No. I _was_ with Mark, but he got paged to an emergency." She didn't want to tell Cristina quite how close she'd come to nasty naughty nurse activities. Not yet anyway. But she was grateful to her for using this nickname to cut Jason down to size and consign him to the past. "Thank you," she added. "I'm sorry I was . . . difficult."

In the pause that followed, Meredith could have sworn she actually heard Cristina raise her eyebrows.

Eventually, Cristina said in a strained voice, "I shouldn't have left you there. I should have . . . I should have stayed and helped you drag the corpse across the floor." The final words came out in a rush.

Meredith smiled to herself. "You're apologizing?" she teased.

"I'm just saying," Cristina said impatiently.

"Accepted." When silence greeted this statement, Meredith changed the subject. "Is Lexie with you?' she asked.

"Three? I expect she's somewhere, making heinous intern mistakes. In fact, I know she is. But, strangely, she hasn't asked a dopey, wide-eyed question for the last, oh, eight-and-three-quarter minutes."

"Cristina," Meredith said pointedly. "She's going to take her intern test soon. She's almost a resident. Call her Lexie. Or Grey, at least. Not Three."

"You're defending her now?" Again, Meredith could hear Cristina's expression and this time it was a shrug. "Anyway, I gave up calling her Three to everyone but you ages ago."

Meredith sighed, dismayed that even Cristina seemed more functional than her where Lexie was concerned, and more so because it seemed as though Cristina felt she had to hide this from her. "Am I a total bitch?" she asked.

"Sometimes," Cristina deadpanned. "I always thought that was one of the reasons we're friends."

"Seriously, though. I'm a bitch to Lexie, aren't I? And I'm getting that way with Mark." Meredith sighed again, deeper and more heartfelt this time.

"You're not a bitch. You have issues," Cristina said, and Meredith instantly relaxed. It was nice when you're person backed you up, even if they were biased, and maybe lying a little. "But it's good that you made up with McSteamy."

"Meaning, even you, Cristina Yang, who kind of hates Mark, thinks I'm a bitch to him?"

"Meaning now you can whine to him again and not to me." Cristina snarked. "And I don't hate him, at least not as much as the nasty nurse. It's good you made up with him because he makes you happy, when you let him and, as painful as that makes you to be around, when you're drunk and sad and fawning over slimy, over-sexed RNs you're even worse." She sighed and added in a softer voice, "And you're not a bitch. Didn't we just discuss that? You've just got to learn to deal when things aren't exactly how you want them and not get all hurt and snippy."

"Hurt and snippy?"

"Hurt and snippy and tequila'd up, if you'd prefer the precise version. He doesn't have to be perfect, Mer. Nor do you."

"I know," Meredith agreed. "I sort of came to that conclusion myself today I guess." She paused. "Cristina?"

"Yes, Meredith."

"You're not a bitch either. At least not all the time."

"Why, thank you!" They both laughed.

"Cristina?" Meredith asked, more tentatively this time.

"Yes." Cristina drew out the word dryly.

"Could you say "hi" to Lexie for me?"

"Hi?"

"Yes. Say "hi" and, I don't know, maybe we could grab a cup of coffee tomorrow, when I'm back at work?"

"You want me to do your dirty work and be all touchy-feely on your behalf?"

"I don't want you to be touchy-feely. Just say "hi" and then the coffee thing." Meredith chuckled softly. "You can write it down and pass her a note if you prefer."

"Because _I'm_ the one who's emotionally stunted today?"

"Don't you have names to take and lives to save? Not to mention notes to pass for me?"

"I'm waiting around for Hahn to grace me with her presence," Cristina said. "Which, I guess, just gives me time to go and stroke your sister. If I really have to."

"Thank you."

"You owe me, by the way," Cristina said. "And Meredith? I forgot." She paused before adding in a dreamy voice, "I missed you too," and hung up, without waiting for an answer, leaving a definite smirk lingering in the airwaves.

Meredith breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had her person back. That was a good sign, right? She had her person _and_ she'd made the first move towards talking to Lexie. Even if it was second-hand and hiding behind Cristina, that was a good sign too. Things could definitely work out. Not just between her Cristina, but her and Lexie and definitely her and Mark.

She got up and went into the bathroom and brushed out her hair. Sleeping on it wet had styled into unruly curls and she kind of liked the effect. It made her feel alluring, almost Izzie-ishly voluptuous and she liked that feeling. It was exactly how she wanted to feel right now.

* * *

On the drive home, Mark's hands started shaking again. He chose to put it down to having too much coffee that day and nothing much of anything else, apart from the water Meredith had given him before he left for the hospital. Unhungry to a degree that he hadn't experienced since the cancer treatment had been at its most brutal, he nevertheless recognized that he should eat something. Partly because he didn't want to show up at home in this state and freak Meredith out before they'd even gotten started. But even the thought of eating almost brought back the nausea. And when he pulled into a parking space outside a small, unfamiliar coffee shop, he bargained with himself that he was allowed one more cup of coffee if he also ate something.

As he paid for the cappuccino and the plain poppy seed bagel which seemed like, if not exactly appealing, something he could stomach, his eyes rested on the cigarette display and for some reason he couldn't understand, his body almost jolted with a physical craving to smoke. At first, he looked away from the cigarettes and tried to ignore it, because it was too fucked up. A doctor and a recently, and hardly stably, recovered cancer patient should _not_ be craving cigarettes. Quite apart from the fact that he hadn't smoked since he was seventeen, and then only for around a month before he quit for good. Well, until now. Because just the memory of smoking, of lighting-up and taking the first drag and leaning back, his eyes closed, while relief washed through his system was overpowering him. It seemed like, if he could just smoke, he would feel okay again.

So, after a second furtive glance at the rows of cigarettes and some unnecessary shuffling of bills, he cleared his throat and muttered,

"Uh, can I . . . can I add a pack of Marlboros to that?" He tried to sound as though he did it every day, but he felt like he was ordering a Schedule 1 controlled substance and even looked around to make sure no residents or interns or nurses or worse, Julia Lindstrom, happened to be there watching him. "No, make that Marlboro Lights." Marlboros had been the last brand he'd smoked, so that's what he'd asked for. But he thought he should maybe make some kind of concession to maturity and common sense. "And a disposable lighter, I guess."

Back in the car, he forced himself to eat the bagel, which settled in an uncomfortable lump in his unprepared stomach and then drank some coffee. The pack of cigarettes was lying on the passenger seat and, as he drank his coffee, he stared at it, sizing it up, and the more he looked at it the more he wanted to smoke. Until, finally, he seized the soft pack almost squashing it and its contents, ripped out the cellophane and foil tab, and tapped out a cigarette. The only way he was going to do this was if he didn't think. So, with the same haste, he lit up and took a drag and half expected to start coughing his lungs up. Except he didn't. Unlike almost everything else in his life right now, this went exactly the way of his memory-derived fantasy. And he leaned back against the Porsche's high-backed seat, closed his eyes, inhaled and then blew a slow stream of smoke out through his nose. He regretted a little that he seemed to have knack for it. If it hadn't all been so pleasurable and second-nature and like being, in some screwed-up way, home for a moment, it wouldn't have been so compelling. He briefly wondered how he'd gotten so practiced at smoking in what really was only a month and decided he must have done a hell of a lot more of it than he'd thought. As smoke started to waft around the car, he opened the window to let in some air. Then he really did stop thinking entirely. Because this — this lethal, toxic, bad-smelling habit — was fucking wonderful and, for one moment, he felt relaxed and almost good.

* * *

Still wearing the bathrobe, Meredith had curled on the couch, covered by the blue cashmere throw and immersed herself in medical journals, mostly general surgery, until sleep overcame her again.

When she woke, groggily, it was to find Mark, kneeling by the side of the couch, his hand gently stroking her hip.

At first, all she could do was smile at him, because so many emotions—delight, relief, confusion, desire, wanting to tell him how she was going to fix everything, and more that she couldn't name—hit her at once, it felt as though her mind would explode.

But when he returned her smile, she noticed that his gray-blue eyes were a little bloodshot, with new, dark smudges underneath, and that the lines that crinkled around them were just that bit deeper etched than she remembered. She sat up and put out a hand to stroke his hair, which he caught and kissed tenderly. And even in this gesture, Meredith could sense his fatigue and she searched his face in concern.

"What?" he asked, wearily playful. "You forget what I look like?"

"You look tired, that's all," she said. "The patient? Is she okay?"

"She's fine. I'll you tell you about it tomorrow," Mark sighed. "And yeah, I am tired. Unlike you, I haven't been sleeping half the day," he teased her and she raised an eyebrow and shook her head in playful denial and said "Not quite _half_ the day," indicating the journals.

As she shook her head, some hair fell out of place and, just as she had longed for earlier that day, he tucked it behind her ear. His beautiful reflex that never failed to make her catch her breath. Except this time, there was an unfamiliar smell as his hand brushed her face.

Meredith lifted her nose and sniffed. "You smell of cigarette smoke," she said. "You don't _smoke_."

"Yeah. No. It was . . . never mind about that." He muttered and then sighed heavily. "Like you said, I'm tired. I'm fucking exhausted." He gave her a plaintive look. "And I need to sleep." He stood up, groaning a little with the effort, and held out his hand. "Come with me?" he asked, the look in his eyes so desperate that she couldn't have refused if she'd wanted to.

She pushed off the throw and uncurled her legs, sending a medical journal sliding on to the floor, and stood up. As she did so, she fought with herself not to bother him with all the thoughts she'd had that day because she knew, really, that he wasn't capable of taking them in right now. But impulsiveness and the desire to make amends got the better of her, and she couldn't help starting to blurt,

"I've been thinking," she said. "And I just have to tell you—"

He put a finger against her lips. "Ssshh, Mer," he said. "Please. I need sleep, baby. We can talk tomorrow. About anything you want. I mean it. But now. Sleep. Seriously." He looked in her eyes again. "For me, huh?"

Meredith stuffed down the part of her that wanted to be frustrated, because it wasn't a part she was proud of, took his hand, and allowed him to lead her upstairs to bed.

In the bedroom, Mark kicked off his shoes and immediately crawled under the blankets, fully clothed, and stretched out, his head resting on one arm that was tucked under the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Meredith, climbing in next to him, opened the bathrobe to expose her collarbone and a little glimpse of firm breast. "You don't want a little dirty sex before you go to sleep?" she flirted coyly.

Mark opened one eye and squinted at her questioningly, but didn't say anything.

"It wouldn't . . . I wouldn't . . . I won't be like this morning," she promised uncertainly, a little deflated by his lack of interest. "I was scared and tense and I shouldn't have, you know, with . . ." She trailed off. Talking about Jason again wasn't going to get them anywhere. "But now I'm not. I'm not scared and I've sorted things out, in my mind." She smiled, hoping she looked loving and certain and sane.

"Yeah?" Mark asked and opened both eyes. "You feel like working on _me _some time?" He smiled back and laughed slightly. But it was obvious to Meredith that his heart wasn't in this.

"You're really tired," she sympathized.

"Yeah."

"You want to sleep and I'm keeping you awake."

He shrugged and smiled again, crookedly.

Meredith put her head on one side. "So no dirty sex?" she tried one last hopeful time.

"No dirty sex _right now_," Mark corrected her. "Dirty sex later. Promise. I just have to sleep now and then I'm all yours." He half smirked, but couldn't really pull it off and just ended up looking even more tired.

"'kay," Meredith conceded, pouting playfully as she lay down and cuddled against his chest.

"In the meantime, you can have dirty dreams," he growled in her ear as he wrapped his arm around her waist. "I seem to remember you having a very good time with those."

"Mmhm," she agreed. She didn't add that that was before she'd tried the real thing and she didn't think it would compare, because she didn't think he wanted to hear that right now.

"Just so long as you don't call me Derek again." He kissed the back of her neck and briefly nuzzled her with his nose.

"'kay," she said again, then added, after a well-timed pause, "Goodnight Derek."

Mark didn't respond and when Meredith craned around to check why, and found that he had already fallen asleep, she smelled the faint whiff of cigarettes again. It puzzled her, but she put it out of her mind. If there was no talking until later, and no sex until later, then no thinking until later seemed like a good plan too. She settled back against him and tried to make her mind go blank and not think about how awful he looked and how tired he was and how he seemed somehow distant and remote in a way she couldn't quite pin down. And then she sighed out loud as she caught herself. The no thinking wasn't working; her mind wouldn't cooperate. So she set herself the task of silently reciting everything she could remember about the article on entero-colocutaneous fistula as a late consequence of polypropylene mesh abdominal wall repair she'd read earlier that day. And in the end, she fell asleep too.

* * *

Title song: _**The Chemicals Between Us**_, Bush

_I want you to remember  
A love so full it could send us all ways  
I want you to surrender  
All my feelings rose today  
And I want you to remain_


	8. There Is No Lonelier State

Author's note:_  
_

**Warning: ****This chapter contains scenes of a graphic nature that are not suitable for all readers, and some may find disturbing. It is by no means fluffy. **

I know that this stuff is hard to read and may not be what you want from a Mark/Meredith story. All I can say is that I love these characters too, this is where the ideas want to go, and I have happier plans for the story, eventually . . . and thank you for sticking with this so far.

Beta'd by EscapismRocks and Karevsanatomy. Thank you both.

* * *

Chapter 8, There Is No Lonelier State

Despite his need for sleep, Mark kept waking up throughout the night. Each time, he'd fall back to sleep, sort of, but then he'd wake yet again. Mostly it was just thoughts rolling around his shattered brain. But this time, it was Meredith. In her sleep, deep and snoring as usual, she had reached for him, run her hand along his groin and lightly teased him with the back of her fingers. This was instinctive, unconscious, a little sexy habit of hers that, normally, he loved. Normally, he might even take her hand and increase the pressure and when she'd woken just enough, roll over onto her and make lazy, half-awake love until they either came or fell back to sleep, whichever. It didn't seem to matter. Anything with her was good.

Had been good. Because when she touched him this time, he woke up with a start and, by whatever fucked-up reflex had taken hold of him, pushed her hand away. He didn't want to push her away. His mind wanted her; his heart wanted her even more. But his body recoiled at her touch. Meredith murmured slightly and turned on her side, facing away from him and, as she did this, profound relief washed through Mark, immediately followed by horrified disbelief that he could feel this way about her. Dying for a cigarette, but not wanting to give in to the craving that had inexplicably taken hold of him, he curled in a tight ball and tried to will himself back to sleep. All he wanted right now was nothingness. But his mind wasn't about to allow this.

He hadn't thought about it for years, but now he could remember the first time he smoked. It was his seventeenth birthday; the same night he'd blown off what's-her-face, Laura; the same night Derek had said he couldn't hang with him because his mom wouldn't let him come out for some reason. Mark groaned out loud. He hadn't been able to remember any of this shit until the cancer. Even then, it had just been a disturbing dream, a series of images. Now he could see and feel the whole fucking evening in stark detail.

His mother had been drinking in the kitchen when he came home with Laura. They had to go through the kitchen to get to the boathouse. The old boathouse was kind of his private domain. Nobody ever went there except him. And, even though it was dirty and the floor was hard, the lake was nice, and he felt safe there. Comfortable. Apart from which, it was a great place to bang girls without getting interrupted. But before they could get there, they had to get past his mother. Predictably, she'd been a total bitch. After a few choice, sarcastic remarks, she'd run her fingers through his hair -- even now a chill ran down the length of his spine at the thought of this -- and she'd said something about him being, what, sexy, good looking? He couldn't remember clearly. He could only remember that whatever she'd said and the feel of her fingers against his scalp made his stomach contract with nausea and he'd been afraid he was going to throw up, on the kitchen floor, in front of Laura and lose all semblance of cool.

He hadn't. But when they reached the boathouse, although he tried, with all the requisite pushing Laura up against the splintery wall and working his hand into her panties, he found he had no desire for her. The opposite. The thought of sex with her completely turned him off. And when he tried fantasizing about the cheerleader he'd screwed last week, which had been pretty damn hot at the time, he felt the exact same way. It had nothing to do with performance anxiety. Even at seventeen he'd known he was good. It was that a feeling of absolute, sinking despondency and sadness overtook him when he even thought about fucking Laura, or anybody else. So he had asked her to leave; in the most callous way and without the slightest attempt at honesty; making himself seem suddenly, randomly unattracted to her. He also remembered that she'd been upset and he couldn't give a fuck and hadn't even offered to give her a ride home.

After that, he'd just sat on the floor of the boathouse, listening to the lake, in a kind of stupor. Then, hours later, desperate for company and for some kind of understanding and friendship, he'd rung Derek. He'd asked him if he wanted to hang out and drink beer, giving the excuse that it was his birthday. But that didn't happen. Mark couldn't help feeling that, if it had, something . . . something he couldn't identify but seemed important, might have been different. But, instead, he'd ended up drinking with Brad and Danny from the football team. And he'd smoked his first cigarette. A Marlboro. That was when the smoking started and it didn't stop for an entire month.

That same month he'd avoided girls, because the thought of screwing still filled him with panic and depression; feelings that the smoking seemed to keep at bay, or at least dampen. Of course, he'd gotten back on the horse eventually and fucked some girl who smiled at him after a football game. And that day, he'd quit smoking. Until, that is, he'd taken it up again, age forty, the previous night.

He wondered if this was the kind of thing Meredith wanted to know. He guessed, now he'd remembered it in full, he could tell her this if it would make her happy; though why the hell it would, he had no fucking idea, because it certainly didn't do that for him. He had a feeling his expensive shrink would have liked it if he'd been able to remember things like this during the pretty much useless therapy sessions he'd sat through back in New York. She could have made another of those damning insights she was so fond of that did nothing to help and everything to make Mark feel worse. With this thought resentfully haunting his brain, he finally drifted back to sleep.

_. . . This was the only place that was safe. He could hide here, because nobody ever came down here. His father, sometimes, but he was almost never home now, and today he'd left early and Mark had heard him tell his mother he wouldn't be back until tomorrow. So he'd come down here to hide. To get away from whatever plans she had for him. He knew he couldn't hide forever, but he could put it off. She scared him more each time. He didn't know what she wanted, and she never seemed pleased with him whatever he did, and recently she'd started telling him stuff about his father and how Mark was a mistake and had tied her to a man she didn't love. She said this and other things that made him feel bad; things he didn't understand, while she was with him. At least, in the past, she never said stuff like this. She acted like she liked him. That was the only good part about it. That and, sometimes, it even felt kind of nice . . ._

Mark woke up again, disoriented, terrified, trying to dig himself into the firm mattress for some kind of feeling of security and to get away from the source of his fear. But as he became conscious of where he was, he realized it was only Meredith again, her body softly aligned with his, her hand stroking him, playing with him, making him hard in a way that he knew he ought to love. That he _did _ love. But that for some reason made him freeze in fear. He removed her hand as gently as he could and then swallowed, abjectly awkward, before saying, "Uh, Mer? Could you just not . . . not do that right now, please?" His back remained turned towards her; his voice came out harsher than he'd intended. He just didn't know what else to do.

"You said dirty sex later," she whispered in his ear. "It's later. It's 4:00 am. I have to get up for work soon, so I thought . . . " Her fingers stroked his side, moving again towards his groin. But she stopped, abruptly, when he shuddered. He didn't want to; he didn't want to be doing any of this. He just couldn't help himself.

"I'm still tired," he offered as a lame excuse. It was true, but it didn't begin to cover the insane things he was feeling. "I can't."

Meredith paused for a long time and then sighed. When she spoke again, her voice had lost the cutely seductive quality Mark usually adored, and taken on a tentative tone. "I just wanted to . . . I wanted to make love with you."

"Even though I don't want to?" The menacing tone of his voice made Mark wince, but he was unable to suppress the anger that he didn't understand but insisted on being expressed. "My opinion about this makes no fucking difference, right?" He turned violently to face her, his sudden movement pushing her away. "Because what, Meredith? Because it's just about sex?"

"No," she said, and the part of Mark that still had any control over his feelings felt so bad for her as she struggled not to cry. "I . . . I love you. I wanted to show you. Everything's been so bad between us and . . . and it's more my fault than I realized and I didn't want it to go on. I wanted to show you I love you; I wanted us to make love like _us_, not like the mess we were . . . I was . . . yesterday. I wanted to show you that I'm sorry and I want us to get through this." She ran out of words and smiled at him, sadly, the tears starting to spill down her face when he didn't reply.

A part of Mark truly hurt for her. She was so miserable and so hopeful at the same time and, underneath all the crap that was churning in his head, he loved her. He half reached out a hand to stroke her face, but he never completed the movement. Because the other part of him took over again and something in him snapped.

"You want to show me you love me by giving me a hand job?" he almost sneered at her, powerless to stop himself and hating every next cruel word that came out of his mouth. "You never stopped to consider that maybe I'd feel loved if you let me sleep when I'm over the fucking edge with exhaustion? If you stopped endlessly pushing me to talk about things that screw with my mind? Or maybe if you gave a goddamn that I just found out I'm in remission?"

"I do," Meredith protested through her tears. "Of course I do. You _know _that. I'd just had a bad day and --"

"And the fact that you happened to run into your half-sister -- who, incidentally, is a perfectly pleasant intern, not the bitch you make her out to be -- trumps the news that the man you've been saying you're in love with all this time isn't going to die? At least, not this week."

"Please," Meredith begged. "Please don't." It felt like her whole world was falling apart. She had never, ever seen him like this and he was scaring her and, worse than that, hurting her desperately.

"Not to mention," Mark went on, "that when I go to the hospital today, I'm probably going to get slapped with a malpractice suit. And you know why?" She shook her head sadly, forcing herself to look into his eyes. "Because you and your impossible fucking demands have turned me into an incompetent surgeon." He laughed nastily. "You know what? When I was with Addison, in New York -- with everything we went through, even when she left me -- I could still do my goddamn job. People still thought of me as the best plastic surgeon on the east coast. Now, what the hell am I? The third-rate head of a third-rate plastics department? God, I was right when I told Karev he should go to New York. Same as I should have stayed there. I would still be something like a surgeon, and you would just be Derek's lusty intern and not the woman who finally convinced me that I have no worth to anybody apart from where I put my dick."

Sobbing uncontrollably, Meredith tried to get up from the bed, wanting to run into the bathroom. But Mark pulled her back down, flipped her on her back and straddled her. His face inches from hers, he growled, "Since sex is all I'm good for, I'm sure I can oblige you with that."

Utterly vulnerable, naked and devastated beyond any pain she'd ever felt before, Meredith fought to push him off her and pull the comforter over her exposed body. But he pinned her arms above her head with one hand, and then, roughly, spread her labia apart and inserted two fingers inside her and began to drive into her without any care, two, three, four times. Cold, emotionless finger fucking that brought no pleasure to either of them. While Meredith -- motionless from shock; too stunned and frightened to comprehend properly what was happening, or even react to the grating friction of his assault -- submitted. But suddenly, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. Mark stopped and pulled back his hand, let go of her arms and slumped over her, his head bowed.

Terror mixed with emerging anger now coursed through Meredith, as she waited to see what he would do next. Eventually, he raised his eyes to look at her and she saw they were filled with pain.

"You should leave," he said hoarsely, and rolled off her and onto his side, tugging the comforter over his head.

Meredith sat up and, for a few minutes, stayed exactly like that, not crying anymore, hardly moving except for the trembling that she was unable to stop, hardly daring to breathe. Then she stood up and grabbed her underwear and sweater and jeans, and pulled them on hurriedly, desperate to be covered. When she was fully dressed, she walked towards the door, intending to leave without another word. But she couldn't. She didn't know whether it was more from anger or from the vain hope that something she said might make it all better. But she couldn't.

"I never felt that way about you," she said. "Yes, the sex is good. So very good. Is that a bad thing? But I _never_ felt that way about you. You were my friend. You made me feel safe and cared for. I told you that over and over again. And I waited for you and I believed in you, even when you treated me like I was nothing." She inhaled deeply. Mark didn't respond at all or even move under the comforter. "I loved you. I loved you more than anything and . . .and . . ." She stopped. She couldn't go on this way while he ignored her.

"You know what?" she asked, her tone much stronger now. "I don't talk. I don't talk when bad things happen. You can ask Derek if you don't believe me. I don't talk." She paused. "So I know how it is. I know how it feels when someone pushes you to communicate and you don't want to. I don't talk. But I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you everything and I wanted to know everything about you. You may not like that and that's your right, I suppose. But, just so we're clear, I've never felt that way about anybody before. So you can think it was just about sex if you want to. You can think all you're worth to me is how well you fuck me or how many orgasms I have. But that doesn't make it true. I screwed up and I wanted to make love with you. And I never, ever thought it would end like this. I never thought it would end at all. I thought we would get through it. But I guess that's not going to happen now."

Meredith took a breath and waited to see if this time he would reply. When he didn't, she continued. "I'm sorry I thought about cheating. I'm sorry I fought with you the day you told me you were in remission. I know the family stuff scares you and I'm sorry. But how you react? That scares _me_. All that love and then, then you just turn on me? I thought . . . I thought that, now that you're well . . . I'm not proud of this, but I thought you might . . . look for someone else."

From under the comforter, Mark gave one short laugh. "You mean _you _wanted to look for someone else because the thought of having a life with me -- not just someone to fuck until my time was up -- was too scary."

Tears sprang to Meredith's eyes again. "You said you understood," she said. "And I believed you. I believed you and I only told you because I love . . . I love," she wanted to say it but she couldn't get it out, "I loved you."

Mark didn't say anything and, after waiting a few more moments, Meredith opened the door of the bedroom and left.

She left him in turmoil, caught between contempt, pain, and remorse so great that nothing that had ever occurred in his life, not with Addison, not with Derek, could touch it. All he really wanted, in his heart of hearts, was to go after her and beg her to stay with him and forgive him. To tell her that he'd do anything for her; anything she wanted; tell her all the thoughts he'd had when he'd left the hospital last night, frantic to see her and hold her. But something stopped him. Something that insisted he should hate her, that he was better off without her and that he meant nothing to her and never had.

He waited until he heard the front door slam closed, and then got up and went downstairs, stopping off to collect his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his leather jacket, before he went out on to the deck. Then he just sat, smoking and looking out at the lake, thoughtlessly and sightlessly, until the arrival of his housekeeper, Ramona, reminded him that he was late for work and that, as deeply and desperately as he'd like to blow it off, he would have to go in.

* * *

Title song: _**The Chemicals Between Us**_, Bush

_The chemicals between us  
The walls that lie between us  
Lying in this bed  
The chemicals displaced  
There is no lonelier state  
Than lying in this bed_


	9. Everything Isn't Only What It Seems

Chapter 9, Everything Isn't Only What It Seems

"Meredith!" Lexie almost bounced up to the nurses' station, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. But Meredith looked straight through her at Cristina, who was following behind at a less excitable pace, scanning a chart.

"Cristina, can I talk to you?" Meredith asked.

"Hmm?" Cristina made a confused face, then indicated towards Lexie with her eyes and mouthed "coffee," stroking her own arm in a pantomime of sisterly affection.

Oblivious to Meredith's mood, Lexie went on. "Cristina . . . Dr. Yang said you wanted to have coffee with me." She smiled broadly. "I think that's such a great idea, a really great idea. It's time we got to know —"

"Another time, Lexie," Meredith muttered, her eyes fixed on Cristina. "Cristina I need to talk to you," she repeated.

"I could _fetch_ some coffee," Lexie persisted. "If you're too busy. I could fetch coffee and we could drink it while you work and I could . . . I could learn. I could learn while we drink coffee." She glanced quickly at Cristina for confirmation, anxious not to let this opportunity to make friends with Meredith pass.

Cristina raised her eyebrows at each of them in turn. "Why are you ganging up on me?" she asked. "And when did I agree to be your go-between?"

"Dr. Grey!" Meredith rounded on Lexie, causing not only her but also Cristina to recoil a little in surprise. "That's enough! I don't have time for coffee. Go and," she searched around for something to send Lexie to do, "go and study for the intern test, if you haven't got any work to do."

Baffled and disappointed, Lexie began to leave, but then changed her mind and turned back to Meredith. "Are you like this with everyone?" She was tentative at first, but her voice became stronger with each word. "I mean, do you do the blowing hot and cold thing with everyone you know? Or is it something special you reserve for me?"

"Maybe you should ask McSteamy about that," Cristina murmured, directing this at Lexie, but hoping Meredith caught the snark. Meredith's mood changes over the past few days had been irritating. And despite Cristina's loyalties, she was somewhat on Lexie's side. After all, coffee had been Meredith's idea, not her sister's.

"Don't ask him anything!" Merdith said coldly, focusing on Cristina. "And don't mention him to me again. Not ever, ever again." Then she noticed that Lexie was still there. "Just go away, Lexie!" she practically yelled.

Lexie's eyes flickered nervously between the two women. When Cristina nodded to imply that she should go, Lexie took the hint. As she retreated, Cristina asked Meredith, "Don't you think that might have been a little harsh? Especially when you were playing happy families by proxy with her yesterday? And why are you so late? Bailey's —"

She broke off when she noticed her friend's horror-stricken face. "What now?"

"Give me your chart," Meredith hissed and grabbed for the chart in Cristina's hand.

"What for?"

"Just give it to me!" Meredith wrestled the chart from Cristina, opened it and pretended to read.

"I have to hand it to you, Karev," Cristina heard Mark say as he walked up behind her and passed the chart he was carrying to the nurse behind the counter. "You made a good call and —" He stopped abruptly when he saw Meredith, and Cristina watched the color drain from his face. What little there was, that is, because he looked sicker than most of the patients she had seen that morning, not to mention the several days' worth of untrimmed facial hair. "Dr. Grey," he said in a hoarse, guarded tone, staring intently at Meredith.

"Dr. Sloan," she replied curtly, without looking up from the chart.

Cristina made a questioning face at Alex, who shrugged.

"You, uh . . . you make it into work okay?" Mark asked. His redundant question caused Cristina to narrow her eyes incredulously and Alex to let out a short laugh. But neither Mark nor Meredith noticed.

"Apparently," Meredith said, still not taking her eyes off the chart.

"Well, that's good." Mark took a step closer to her, at which Meredith snapped the chart closed, slammed it down on the counter and took one step further away from him. Cristina started a little at the impact of the chart and Alex was unable to suppress a quiet "Whoa!"

"Was there something you needed, Dr. Sloan?" Meredith asked pointedly. "I don't believe I'm on your service today." She looked him directly in the eyes, not showing the least sign of flinching when he met her gaze.

"No," Mark said. "I guess you're not." He sighed and ran a hand over his face, before reluctantly turning his attention back to Alex. "What do we have next, Karev?"

"We're, uh, we're running late for the Chief." Alex said. "We have a meeting about —"

"Yeah, yeah," Mark interrupted him wearily. "About my flagging surgical career. How could I forget?" His eyes rested on Meredith again, but she just stared defiantly at him as though daring him to speak to her, until he gave another sigh and ushered Alex away without a further word.

After a few tense seconds where neither of them spoke, Cristina asked, "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Meredith?"

"I'm fine."

Cristina snorted. "You know, normally I'm fine with fine. I get fine. Fine's what gets us through the day and I understand that. But seriously? You're _fine_? Of course you are! You're fine and . . . oh look!" She peered down at herself and patted her body a few times, parodying shock. "I'm George O'Malley!"

Meredith stared at the floor and drew small, angry patterns with the heel of her boot. "I'm fine," she repeated through gritted teeth. Then she looked up, her eyes intensely green, and inhaled. "Okay, I'm not fine. There, I said it. I'm. Not. Fine. I'm not fine and I think it's possible that, from today, I may never be fine again. Because I loved him." She took another breath, trying to suppress the trembling that her body wanted to give in to, but her mind refused to allow. "I loved him and he . . . he . . . "

"He what, Mer?" Cristina asked gently. She knew her person well enough to know that this wasn't just a mood swing or a snit or routine insecurity, that something had caused this, and she was concerned.

For a moment, Meredith struggled to articulate her feelings. Struggled but failed and gave up with an angry shrug. "We broke up," she said. "We broke up and I don't want to talk about it. I thought I did, but I don't." She sighed. "Cristina, I'm not fine. But I have to be. Like you said, I have to be fine to get through the day without crying or yelling or drowning in tequila. I have to be fine if I want a life. So that's what I'll be. Fine. I'll be fine as long as I don't talk or think about Mark Sloan ever again. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Cristina said hesitantly. "But —"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know. You said that and I got it. But won't it be a little hard to avoid him at work? Like just now, for example?"

"Work's fine," Meredith said although, as she did so, her breathing became a little faster. "Work is fine. I can handle work. There's no reason I should be assigned to him and, anyway, I've had practice at this. I handled it with Derek and I handle it with him. I just don't want to talk about . . . about anything else. Okay?"

Cristina reached past Meredith for her chart. If pretence was required, she could do that. Not indefinitely perhaps, but she could do it for a while. She got that Meredith's 'I don't want to talk about it' was real, not a veiled invitation for questions. She realized that something had gone badly wrong between Meredith and Mark. She regretted that she hadn't taken Meredith's doubts over the past few days more seriously. Because, based on her friend's agitation and Mark's odd, casual behavior just now, she wasn't at all sure that she felt bad for him anymore. The opposite in fact. Maybe he had deserved Meredith's complaints about him. She was still sure, on the other hand, that relationships sucked. Because if even this one had failed. This relationship that, secretly, Cristina thought was probably about as good as it got between two damaged people. Well then, that was the final nail in love's coffin as far as she was concerned.

"Okay," she said. "You're fine."

"Thank you," Meredith said. But her eyes betrayed so many emotions that it almost hurt Cristina to look at them.

* * *

"Score!" Alex forgot himself and shoved Mark's arm. He pulled his hand away hurriedly, but Mark hadn't even appeared to notice. "If there's no scarring or complications, they just get a pay-out for emotional trauma and that's the end of it. Webber seriously kicked ass, 'cause yesterday the guy was ready to have your license." Alex mentally winced at his tactlessness. But, once again, there was no reaction to his words. Mark had been acting weird all morning and it was freaking him out. Not to mention whatever was going down with Meredith.

Mark nodded absently. "I have a rhinoplasty scheduled this afternoon, right?"

"Yeah. 2:00 pm, OR 2."

Mark nodded again, still distracted. "You should consider what you want from plastics, Karev," he said thoughtfully. "Or if you even want to stay in this specialty. You're not without talent and if you wanted to go back into neonatal —"

"Thanks, I guess," Alex said uncertainly, not sure how to take either the compliment or the rest of the statement. "But I'm fine where I am."

Ignoring the interruption, Mark repeated, "Like I said, you're not without talent. You could have a good career." He sighed. "I talk up this specialty, but the truth is, however many tumors we remove or reconstructive surgeries we do, there's still a lot of nose jobs and face lifts."

Okay, this was getting seriously weird now. "You . . . your work is . . . incredible." Alex scrambled for the right words. "And — what is it you always say? — you fix what's on the inside, right? People are screwed up. If getting their nose fixed helps, why not?"

Mark raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "When did you become the captain of my personal cheerleading squad?"

"Sorry," Alex mumbled awkwardly.

"No." Mark shook his head. "Don't apologize. I, uh . . . I appreciate it, I guess. And you're right. But if you're serious about plastics, you should consider transferring to a hospital in New York. You'd learn a lot there and get some good experience and contacts." He shrugged. "Think about it, okay?"

"But you were the best New York had and you're here. Why would I transfer?"

Mark laughed dryly. "I may not be all I'm cracked up to be, Karev. But your faith in me is touching." He narrowed his eyes as though making an assessment. "You smoke?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you smoke?"

"You're kidding me! This is some kind of test, right?" Alex was beginning to wonder if Mark was making him jump through insane hoops for fun. In fact, he almost hoped he was, because that would be more like the Mark Sloan he knew, and not additional evidence that his boss was losing it big time.

Mark rubbed his nose self-consciously and then gave Alex a sheepish grin. "I, uh, started smoking . . . again, sort of . . . and I was thinking about going outside and, well, smoking. I thought you might want to join me."

Alex stared hard at Mark. "To smoke?" he asked incredulously.

"Didn't I just say —"

"You're smoking?!" Alex lifted his hands in disbelief. "Dude, you're a surgeon. You're a cancer patient! Why the hell would you smoke?"

"Should I take that as a 'no?'"

"Damn right you should!" Alex took a deep breath to calm himself. He didn't quite understand why he was getting so worked up about this. But he didn't want to see all the progress they had made, the working routine they had built up, slip away because Mark was hell-bent on turning a couple of bad days into a self-inflicted disaster. Even though he was certain Mark wouldn't like this, he had to say something. "You should see someone," he ventured. "You should talk to your oncologist, man. If not a," he glanced sideways at Mark and scratched his neck uncomfortably, "you know . . ."

"A shrink? Is that what you're trying to say?" Mark gave one, brief humorless laugh. "Any particular reason for that? I mean, do I maybe strike you as pathologically self-loathing?" Alex was at a loss for words and Mark laughed again. "You know what? You're probably right. The fact that I'm standing here having this absurd conversation with you is proof that I should see someone. Jesus, if I had talked that way to my attending when I was a second year . . . I hardly ever got to see the guy and then it was like a visit from God . . . I would have been out of the surgical program before —"

"Yeah, well, maybe your attending wasn't trying to fuck up his life and yours with it," Alex broke in and then waited with all his muscles tensed for the angry comeback. But none came.

For a few seconds, Mark just stared at him. Then he swallowed, nodded once and said in a low voice, "Like I said, you should think about New York," before he turned and walked quickly away.

* * *

Around the back of the hospital, out of sight, where he had discovered the smokers lurked, Mark leaned against the outer wall and took a sip of the coffee he had bought on the way out. A light drizzle was falling and he zipped up his leather jacket, which he had thrown on over his scrubs, turning up the collar for protection.

Over and over, his mind ran through the morning's events. Nothing made sense. Only hours after throwing Meredith out of his house, he had chatted to his housekeeper about coffee, driven to work and checked on patients like it was any ordinary day. Then he had tried to talk to Meredith, but all that would come out of his mouth was stupid questions and sarcastic self-pity. Then he had sat through a meeting where the Chief had saved his ass, while he felt nothing except a vague disappointment that he hadn't been suspended. Because not being suspended meant he would have to work the rest of the day, not just go home and try and forget that existed. Finally, there was that bizarre fight with Karev. He knew he ought to feel something about all this. He knew that, under his blank numbness, he _did_ feel something. But he didn't seem to be able to summon the will. It was so much easier not to feel. It meant he could stand upright and talk to colleagues. Even if what he said was a bunch of crap that made people tell him to see a shrink, it was more or less coherent and unaccompanied by misery, or shaking, or disturbing images in his head or the abject, fucking terror they caused. Right now that was enough.

He took a drag of his third cigarette in ten minutes, because apparently he had progressed to chain-smoking now, and closed his eyes, hoping this would help him to focus and think. But, with his eyes closed, the conversation of two men standing a few feet away became clearer and he allowed himself the relief of listening to them for a moment.

"Did you see the ass on that?"

"The brunette? Not my type. Too fat!"

"Nah . . . she's not fat. She's curvy. You just don't appreciate real women."

"Oh no? You should have seen the chick I scored with the other night. In fact, you probably did. She works here."

Idly interested by the last remark, Mark squinted briefly at the speaker, before closing his eyes again. The guy was young and unnaturally blond. He looked like an ass. But then, Mark thought, it probably took one to know one. He couldn't even count how many conversations like this he'd had. Getting laid was pretty damn easy; it was love that was hard . . . well, fucking impossible.

"Yeah? A nurse?" the other guy asked.

Mark thought he might have seen the blond guy around the hospital. Maybe waiting for the paramedics? He couldn't be sure. What's more, he didn't know why he gave a fuck. Just that eavesdropping on this conversation, as dumb as it was, seemed preferable to dwelling on his screwed up life and his inability to feel anything about it.

"No. Wasn't a nurse. Picked up a resident at Joe's. She was seriously hot for me, but she freaked out in the bathroom stall so I bailed."

Good for her! Mark thought. His reaction surprised him a little, but his sympathies were with the woman, whoever she was. Everything about the guy gave him away as a jerk.

"I should have known better," he went on. "Fucking surgeons are too stuck up to know what's good for them."

Mark tensed at these words, opened his eyes again and took a long drag of his cigarette, then threw the butt on the ground.

"_Surgical_ resident? Seriously? Not Yang?!" The second guy spluttered with laughter. "No, couldn't be. There's no way she'd freak out on you, more like eat you for breakfast."

"Fuck, no! The only way I'd hit on Yang is if it was for a bet! It was Grey."

"See, I knew you were shitting me, Jason. Grey's just an intern."

"Not that Grey, the other one. Meredith. And you know, it's funny, 'cause from what I hear she'll screw anything with a pulse. Nobody ever said she was a cock —"

Jason didn't get to finish his sentence, because Mark's fist connected with his nose with an audible crack and he found himself on the ground, spouting blood. Until Mark hauled him roughly to his feet and smashed him up against the wall, while his friend retreated to a safe distance.

"The only thing Dr. Grey proved by not wanting you, you worthless piece of shit," Mark snarled, "is that . . . " An insult had been on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly he couldn't remember what he had intended to say. It wasn't important. Because the full, stark knowledge of what he had done to her crashed through him. For the first time he saw clearly how he had violated her, abused her, betrayed her unforgivably; how he had become something far worse than this ass had ever been. "Is that she's finally learned to recognize scum when she sees it." Tears filled Mark's eyes as, hardly registering Jason's presence, he shoved the man away from him and then sank down against the wall, his head in his hands.

"You think you're above the rules? Just because you're a surgeon?" Jason shouted, made falsely brave by adrenaline and Mark's crumpled state. "Webber's not going to let you get away with this. "

Beyond reacting, Mark sighed heavily, put a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a card, which he handed to Jason, who snatched it warily. "If you want to file a complaint, that ought to give you a head start," Mark said expressionlessly. "The paperwork on those things is a bitch."

As the two men left, Jason clasping his bleeding nose, Mark allowed his head to sink into his hands again. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do or say. He might as well sit here. He was losing it; he was delusional; he couldn't do his job; he couldn't even fuck right anymore. He was no longer himself. He no longer had any sense of himself. Worse than any of this, he had hurt her. He had warned her he would hurt her; warned her off him; but even he had never meant something like that. He had ravaged the body and the heart and the trust of the one person he loved most. So there was nowhere to go, nothing to do or say. He might as well sit here until someone came to question him about breaking the jerk's nose. Because the life he'd thought he could have was no longer possible, if it ever really had been. He had no life and the only person he could blame for that was himself. He could have talked to her. He could have tried, last night, even though he was tired and fucked up. When he had left Seattle Grace, all he had wanted was her; he had been willing to do anything for her. And, even though he'd needed sleep, he could have at least tried. He could have tried to understand himself better and he could have tried to share it with her. But he hadn't. However much he was suffering, he'd done this to himself. He'd been right, months ago; his past _had_ defined him, beyond fucking redemption. Like the rest of his family, he hurt and screwed up everything he touched. Meredith was better off without him; she was better off knowing what kind of man he really was.

"I guess you don't care," he whispered, not knowing why he was speaking out loud, but somehow needing to hear his own voice to make it real. "Why the hell would you after what I did? But I love you, Mer. I love you and I'm sorry. I know it's too late, but I'm sorry. You deserve something better from life." He inhaled sharply and tried to bury his face deeper in his hands, wanting to hide from everything, including his own thoughts and feelings. "You sure as hell deserve someone better than me."

* * *

Title song: _**Goodbye**_, Secondhand Serenade

_It's a shame that it had to be this way  
It's not enough to say I'm sorry_

_I'm alive but I'm losing all my drive_  
'_Cause everything we've been through  
And everything about you  
Seemed to be a lie  
A guiltless twisted lie  
It made me learn to hate you  
Or hate myself for letting it pass by_

_All I have to say is goodbye  
We're better off this way_


	10. All Hell Broke and Finally Took Its Toll

**Warning: please be aware that this chapter contains material that some readers may find disturbing.**

* * *

Chapter 10, All Hell Broke and Finally Took Its Toll

"There you are!"

When he heard the soft, familiar voice and felt her crouch down next to him, Mark hesitated, not sure if he wanted to react. He didn't know if he wanted her there. He thought, really, all he wanted was to be left alone. But someone was going to come eventually, and very probably someone less comforting and less safe than Callie Torres.

"Callie." His voice cracked as he said her name and he swallowed and cleared his throat, before looking cautiously into her warm, brown eyes

"Hey, Mark." She put a tentative hand on his arm and smiled. "So I have an interesting new patient, sitting in exam room 4 and yelling about you to anyone who'll listen." The concern that was vying in her expression with mild amusement got the upper hand, and she rubbed his arm gently. "Are you okay?"

He nodded and hung his head. "I guess." Then, for no good reason, he added, "I'm sorry."

Callie raised her eyebrows and made a little, ironic kissing sound with her lips. "I don't think it's _me_ you should be apologizing to. The guy's pissed. You know he wants to file a complaint?"

Mark nodded again.

"I sent him for x-rays." She laughed slightly. "I told him they were backed up down there, and Grey's going to hold onto the films until I get back—"

"Grey?" he interrupted, slightly panicked. "You mean Meredith?"

"No. Lexie. The intern, remember? The one you called stupid." Callie studied him, before sighing and going on. "I'm guessing it's a simple fracture, but there could be some cartilage damage. I won't know for sure until I get the films back." She gave a quick, nervous grin. "Anyways, I doubt he'll be asking for a nose job any time soon. At least not from you!"

"Shit! I have a rhinoplasty scheduled this afternoon. I forgot." Mark half got up, then slumped back down, because the effort of dealing with his life right now was beyond him. He looked at his watch. It was 2:00 pm. He sighed. "Karev'll prep her," he said, mostly to himself. "Won't matter if I scrub in a little late."

"You're going to scrub in?" Callie asked. Apart from the obvious fact that punching out nurses wasn't exactly normal behavior, everything about him worried her. She glanced up at the sky and then down at her dampened scrubs. "You think maybe you should get out of this rain first?"

"Huh?" he asked, then looked down at himself and registered for the first time that the rain had gotten heavier and that he was half soaked. "It's raining," he said and shook his head, bemused. "I guess I hadn't noticed."

"Well, it's Seattle. Raining all the time," Callie joked, eyeing Mark uneasily as she stood up and smoothed down her scrubs. She reached out a hand to him. "Come inside and dry off."

As wet and miserable as it was outside, Mark wasn't sure that he wanted to go back into the hospital. But he would have to some time and over the past few minutes he'd gotten used to Callie's presence and he didn't want her go in and leave him behind. Her friendship made him feel connected to something. He felt as though, if she went away, he would just fade away into his own depression. And as much as part of him wanted that, another part wanted to cling onto the hope her presence gave him. Hope of what, he didn't know; hope of something he wasn't quite ready to let go of, but couldn't hold onto by himself.

"The Chief must be looking for me by now," he said, looking up.

Callie gave a little shrug. "If the gossip got to him already, which is possible I guess, knowing this place. But I'm the surgeon in charge of nurse-boy's case, and I haven't informed him yet." She waggled her fingers in his direction. "Come on, Mark. Come inside with me and get dry. I have to get back to the guy. Plus I'm scrubbing in with Shepherd this afternoon."

Mark held out his right hand to meet hers, putting his left on the ground to push himself up. But, instead of taking his hand, Callie stopped dead. "Oh my God! That must hurt like hell? Let me see!" She rushed around to his right side, knelt down and placed his hand on her palm.

"Shit, I didn't . . ." He shrugged helplessly. His hand was bruised and swollen and, under Callie's scrutiny and careful examination, he felt the stinging ache for the first time. "I didn't notice." He couldn't explain why. Maybe it was adrenaline; maybe just that he could care less what happened to him, he had no idea.

"Swelling and lac over the dorsum of the MP joint," Callie muttered to herself, then stared at him almost accusingly. "You realize that could mean a fracture, right? On your right hand, for God's sake." She shook her head. "What the hell were you thinking? I can't even flex your fingers until I've gotten an x-ray, 'cause I don't know what damage I might be doing to the — what was it again? — best plastic surgeon on the East coast."

"Seattle, you mean," he muttered. But Callie ignored him and suddenly the significance of what he'd done dawned on him. "You think it could be broken?" he asked, with a vulnerability that made her stop what she was doing and stare at him.

"The injury you have _could_ suggest a fracture. It's not likely, but it's possible and we need to be sure." She let go of his hand slowly and stood up again. Smiling, wanting to seem practical and reassuring, she said, "So you need to get your ass up off the ground and come inside with me. Now." She held out a hand again, this time directing it towards his left side.

Mark took it and got up carefully, trying not to put all his weight on her. He groaned as his stiff muscles and joints protested at the movement and, just as he got upright, stumbled a little.

"You okay?" Callie asked softly. Every next thing Mark did increased her concern for him. More was going on here than a hand injury, but that had to be her first priority. It was also her comfort zone.

He rubbed his face and gave her a vague, questioning look. "Yeah," he said, "I'm good." Then he focused a little more and added, "Thank you. I . . ." He shook his head, self-expression eluding him. "Just thank you, I guess."

Callie threaded her right arm through his left and, keeping close to him, guided him towards the hospital entrance. "Let's get you inside," she said.

* * *

Alex slammed his tray down on the cafeteria table, where Cristina was picking at her salad and pretending to read a journal, and slumped down in the chair opposite her. She ignored him.

"Fucking Sloan!" he erupted and then picked up a sandwich and stuffed half of it in his mouth, before adding, indistinctly, through a mouthful of food, "Fucking attendings, fucking screwing with your mind!"

Cristina glanced at him briefly and rolled her eyes.

"You think you're getting somewhere." Alex threw the remains of the sandwich down on the tray. "Then they bail on you and go to L.A. or have a fucking mid-life crisis."

"Sloan's having a mid-life crisis?" Cristina asked, suddenly interested. Even if Meredith refused to tell her what was going on, maybe Alex's ranting would reveal something. "Does that mean he cheated?"

Alex snorted. "Who the hell knows what he did. All I know is that he's lost it."

"Lost it how?"

He opened his bottle of water and took a drink, replacing the cap as he said quietly, "I liked neonatal, you know? Not just because of —" He shook his head. "Never mind." It wasn't just because of Addison; he'd genuinely liked the work and he'd been good at it. "I only said I wanted in on his surgery the first time because I felt sorry for him. Because of the cancer." He sighed. This was only partly true. He'd wanted the surgery, more or less; but it felt better, right now, to believe that he might not have.

Cristina put down her journal impatiently. "Alex."

"What?"

"The only reason I'm sitting through this is for Meredith's sake. So, if you insist on talking, more about Sloan and less about you."

"He didn't say anything about Meredith," Alex muttered morosely. "They broke up, right?"

Cristina nodded.

"Figures." He shook his head as his mind returned to his own problems. "But then he kept requesting me and I got to like it. I didn't even want to go into plastics. Not once I'd tried neonatal. But I got to like it. I like the procedures; the precision. I like what it does for people. And I get to be a part of that. I could _be_ that guy one day." He sighed, stood up and picked up his tray. "Whatever. Maybe I _should_ go to New York."

Without bothering to find out what he meant by this, Cristina asked, "Are you scrubbing in with him this afternoon?" She thought perhaps she could convince Alex to find something out.

"Supposed to be." After this morning's screw-up, Alex wasn't sure where he stood with Mark, but so far no changes had been made to the roster. "Last time I saw him I told him he should see a shrink and he walked out."

Cristina let out a laugh. "A shrink? Seriously? Although, didn't he see one before?" It was ages ago, when Mark first came to Seattle and they'd stood watching an unfamiliar, hot man suture his own face, but Cristina vaguely remembered Meredith mentioning something about a shrink.

"Well, if he did, it didn't work." He started to go and then half-turned back. "Thanks for listening, Yang."

She raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't listening," she said. "I was present while you complained." She put her head on one side and looked at him. "Since when do you care about Mark Sloan?"

Alex shook his head. "I don't care about him," he said defensively. Because he did care, more than he wanted to. "He's screwing with my life, that's all." He shrugged, trying to cover up the feeling he knew had shown in his voice. He felt like the rug was being pulled out from under him. Mark was his mentor. Mark and Meredith having a good thing going on made him feel kind of hopeful. And like Meredith, Mark made him feel that screwed up people had a chance. But now all that certainty was fading. "I have to prep the patient," he muttered, walking away before Cristina had a chance to ask him to get details.

* * *

Mark sat on the exam room table with his head bowed, barely responding to Callie's attempts at soothing banter as she cleaned the wound on his hand. They had stopped for x-rays on the way in, Callie hastily compiling a chart beforehand, and now they were waiting for the results.

Well, Callie was. Mark didn't really care, even though he knew he ought to. He ought to be praying that his hand wasn't fractured, that there was no tendon damage, anything that could screw him up as a surgeon. He ought to be worried about the asshole's complaint. But he couldn't make himself. His mind was swamped by a kind of numbing, muffling absence. He tried to fight through it, to try and pay attention to Callie and think about what was happening to him. But then he was assailed by fear and by images of Meredith that killed him.

Callie stripped off her surgical gloves and threw these and the gauze she had been using into the medical waste bin, then noticed that the exam room blinds were still open. "Shit!" she said softly, and walked over and closed them, relieved to find that it was a rare day at Seattle Grace when everyone was too busy to stare.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked, moving back to the exam table. "While we wait for your films?"

Mark shook his head, not looking at her.

"'Cause it seems like something more is going on here than a busted hand," she ventured. Her eyes widened and she stared at him. "Oh, God, I wasn't thinking. The cancer's not worse, is it?"

He gave a soft, dry laugh. "No." He shook his head again. "I'm in remission."

"Oh, wow! Wow! That's so great!" She broke into a relieved laugh and pushed his arm gently.

"I guess," he said gruffly.

"Well, of course it's good!" Callie exclaimed, trying to elicit a positive response from him. "I'm so pleased for you. I . . . " She ran out of steam, defeated by his total lack of engagement, and then asked, in a quieter voice, "It's good, right?"

Mark sighed. "Yeah, it's good. Of course it is." He inhaled. "I didn't want to do it any more," he said, still not looking at her, his voice very low and very quiet. "I was a wreck. I was a wreck and then I got sick and I didn't want to do it anymore. It seemed like the easy way out." He paused. "She changed everything. Meredith changed everything. Just because she liked me. And I . . ." He looked into Callie's eyes. "I screwed it up. Like always. So," he dropped his gaze to his hands again and shook his head. "I guess it's good. It fucking should be. It was. It _is_. But . . ." He sighed.

Completely at a loss, Callie smiled and touched his arm again. "She'll come back, Mark. I've seen you together. It'll be fine." But she kicked herself for the lame-ass words. Her friendship with Mark was mostly teasing and flirting, but underneath that, it went deeper and she wished she had a better response to this. But she didn't know what to say. Not least because her doctor's training kept prompting her that, if this was an ordinary patient, not the Head of Plastics and her friend, she would be getting a psych consult right about now. But this was Mark and she couldn't accept that, so she pushed it to the back of her mind. "It'll be okay," she insisted with false brightness. "You'll work it out, and—"

"I just couldn't see it," he broke in, and looked into her eyes again, so desperately that Callie's heart ached for him. "She wanted . . . and I couldn't . . . " He faltered and sighed. "I hurt her, Cal. I hurt her, worse than I've ever hurt anyone. I hurt her because I thought she —" He shrugged hopelessly. Nothing he had done made any sense. "I don't know what the hell I thought. I made a huge fucking mistake and I don't know how to live with that."

"You slept with someone?"

He shook his head miserably. "No. Not this time. But cheating's not the only way to destroy someone; destroy their trust."

Callie swallowed awkwardly. Mark had always used sex when he was feeling bad, or good for that matter, or for no real reason at all; and she was lonely and he had broken up with Meredith; and she'd been thinking about him the last few days, ever since that encounter in the elevator. Maybe it was worth a try. Maybe it would help him. "You know," she said uncertainly. "If you, you know, need someone. I'm single now and I know what I said before, but, we could . . ." she shrugged meaningfully. "If you want to."

At first, Mark just stared at her with narrowed eyes and, realizing how inappropriate she had been, Callie began to gabble an apology. "God, I'm sorry," she said, blushing, and pushed her hands through her hair. "That was just _wrong_. Out of line. What was I . . . ? I'm so—"

Out of nowhere, he cupped her face firmly between his hands. "Don't talk," he growled, and pulling her towards him, roughly parted her lips with his tongue and kissed her fiercely, forcing her to kiss him back, until she managed to pull away.

"I didn't mean _now_!" His hands were still holding her face and she pushed him off. "Grey's going to be here with your x-rays any time now. Not to mention that your punching bag's waiting down the hallway. Seriously, Mark! And," she licked her lips with distaste, "you taste of tobacco, which is kind of disgusting." She rolled her eyes.

"You were right though," he said, only half to her. "Get back on the horse. Fuck like rabbits." He raised an eyebrow and laughed sleazily. "I thought you said it was dirty with me? Guess you must like it that way."

"Mark!" He was really scaring her now and all the thoughts about psych consults were bombarding her brain. "Just stop, okay? We can talk later. But right now, we just need to calm down." But he didn't appear to hear her.

"Once a manwhore, always a manwhore, right?" he muttered, ignoring Callie and focusing only on his own thoughts. When did he last say that? Addison. When Addison left him; when he let her leave him. "Addison said she loved me, but all she wanted was sex. A quick, dirty fuck when she was feeling neglected. She loved Derek, though. She loved Derek and she screwed me." He gave one, humorless laugh. "You know what, Cal? You can have all the sex you want, but all it gets you is more sex, until you can't do without it. Until however much you have, it's never enough. Until that's all you're good for."

He became aware for the first time that Callie was staring at him, obviously worried, and some part of him realized what he had just subjected her to.

"Callie," he said in a gentle, conciliatory voice. "Callie, I'm sorry." He looked pleadingly at her for forgiveness and, eventually, she took a step towards him.

"What happened between you and Meredith?" she asked softly, trying to make some kind of sense out of his outburst.

He shook his head slightly. "She just wanted to talk," he said. "About my family, and —" he stopped abruptly. Images suddenly flooded his mind and he knew for the first time what they were. But he couldn't talk any longer, because what he saw stopped his voice. He had no words for this. He watched — because it felt like watching a grotesque slideshow, but a slideshow he was part of as well as observing — as the blonde girl came towards him, smiling, dangling a champagne glass, laughing. She bent down towards him and lurched a little and spilled some champagne, then wiped it into his skin with her hand. He could smell the alcohol and hear her laughing and then she got closer and her hand pressed against him.

"Mark?" He heard Callie's voice from somewhere that seemed distant and to have nothing to do with him. "Grey's here with your x-rays. It looks as though your hand is okay."

But he couldn't respond. The bile rose in his throat as he felt the girl touch him and he recoiled at the childish, unknowing remembered pleasure of it.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Derek was right. She was —" He couldn't bring himself to say it; couldn't bring himself to acknowledge that even she, the bitch that she was, would do this to a child. Do this to _her_ child. Him.

"Grey, would you excuse us?" he heard Callie say, then a murmured acquiescence as the door opened and closed again.

But all he could see was the images, the series of violations his mind presented to him, one after the other; his mother touching him, making him touch her and . . . flecks of black tried to cloud his eyes and his blood pounded in his ears as his body tried to shut down. But he fought against it, because he had to remember. He had to make himself. And finally his head cleared and he found himself looking at Callie.

"I don't want to say this," she said tentatively. "And I'm giving you a heads up because, well, you're _you_ and you deserve that much. But maybe we should see about getting a psych consult."

"Derek was right." He took a long, wracking breath and shook his head, utterly defeated. "I was a kid. I was just a kid and she—" But there was no way he could tell her. He took another breath and then took in his surroundings. "I have to get out of here," he said and stood up.

"Mark, you're in no condition —"

"Sshhh," he interrupted Callie gently and briefly touched her hand. "I'll be fine. I just have to get out of here. I just need some time to think." He smiled at her. "Thank you. You're a good friend." Then he opened the door and left without another word.

* * *

"Ah, Dr. Torres," Derek smiled pleasantly as he signed the chart he was holding and handed it back to the nurse. "All ready for this afternoon's DCS implantation?"

"Not exactly," Callie shook her head. "I need to talk to you," she said urgently.

"Not exactly? We've had this procedure scheduled for weeks." He raised an eyebrow. "Care to tell me what 'not exactly' means?"

Callie glanced surreptitiously at the nurse, trying to indicate they needed to go somewhere private. Her prevarication irritated Derek but, despite this, he put a hand on her arm and ushered her towards a corner away from the nurses' station.

"There's something wrong with Mark," she said. "You need to do something. Because I tried. But I have no idea what's going on with him. He needs to see someone and it would probably be better coming from you."

Derek nodded slowly. Certainly Mark's behavior had worried him yesterday, but nothing quite this urgent.

"I talked to him yesterday and I agree with you. He seems," he searched for a term, "distracted . . . tired. But I'm sure it can wait until after our DCS. I'll check in with him —" He broke off and raised an eyebrow questioningly, as she shook her head. "It really can't wait?"

"There's something going on with him," she said. "He punched out some idiot, outside the hospital." Derek's eyes widened. "And I found him out there, in the rain, with what could easily have been a fracture to his hand."

"He fractured his hand?"

"No. But he could have, and he didn't even seem to care much." She took a deep breath. "His responses are off. He's disoriented. In the exam room, he started talking to himself. I shouldn't have let him leave. But what the hell was I supposed to do? How do I call in a psychiatrist for Mark Sloan?" She rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand and sighed. "Except I should have. I made a wrong call. And I couldn't think of anyone to tell except you."

"What about Meredith?" Derek asked.

"They broke up," she said and Derek raised an eyebrow. "I think that may be part of the problem."

Derek nodded. "Where is he now?" he asked.

"That's just it," she said. "He left. He said some stuff about me being a good friend and that he had to think and he left. And I don't think he should be alone right now."

Derek shook his head reassuringly. "He wouldn't do anything stupid," he said. "You don't have to worry."

"Have you been listening?" Callie demanded. "He's not rational. He hardly knows where he is. And I wouldn't be so sure."

He stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes roaming over her face as he thought. "Push the surgery back an hour," he said finally. "I'll try to find him and I'll let you know."

* * *

"Dr. Karev." Richard Webber strode into OR2, holding a surgical mask in front of his face. "Where's Dr. Sloan?"

Alex sighed. He'd been waiting here for fifteen minutes now, with a prepped patient, a pissed off anesthesiologist and two nurses. It wasn't a complex procedure; a minor open rhinoplasty, that's all. But it was rapidly becoming a fuck-up and all these people seemed to hold him personally responsible for Mark's absence.

"I have no idea," Alex snapped, adding, "sir" as an afterthought.

Richard sighed. "Yesterday's mess — the one I spent my morning digging you out of — wasn't sufficient for one day?"

"Wasn't my mess," Alex muttered, feeling put on the spot, then said, "Sorry," but Richard ignored him.

"Dr. Gregory," he said to the anesthesiologist. "Bring the patient out of anesthesia. Karev, find Dr. Sloan and tell him to come to my office immediately."

Alex pointed to the patient. "If I found him," he said, "couldn't he scrub in first?" He had to make some effort to stand up for Mark.

Richard eyed him impatiently. "Just tell him to come to my office," he repeated. "Until he's seen me and explained his actions, Dr. Sloan no longer has surgical privileges in my hospital. You can tell him that too when you find him. After that, have Dr. Bailey assign you somewhere else."

* * *

After what Callie had said, Derek decided that paging Mark wasn't a good option and tried to call him on his cell phone, hanging up when the ringtone turned into Mark's gruff, impersonal voicemail message. Reluctant to wander through the hospital without a plan, he tried to mentally list places where Mark might be.

When they were younger, especially when they were kids, Mark had a tendency to go off by himself when things were going badly. Derek would sometimes find him in the dusty old boathouse on his parents' property or hiding out in the tree house they had built with Derek's dad. Of course, Mark always claimed that nothing was wrong, but Derek would sit with him anyway and occasionally Mark would talk.

Mark rarely used his office at Seattle Grace, but Derek figured that this might be where he would choose to go in a crisis. And it turned out he was right.

The room was dim. Mark hadn't turned on any lights. He was sitting, knees drawn up to his chest, on the floor in the corner of the room and, when Derek said his name, didn't make any indication that he had heard him.

Derek closed the door quietly, walked in and crouched down. "Mark," he said again, and touched him on the shoulder.

Mark stirred slightly and hunched further into himself. "Go away, Derek. Please," he said in a voice that hardly worked.

"Callie asked me to check on you," Derek said. "And now that I've seen you, I can't just go away." He paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You going to get psych down here?" Mark asked roughly.

"Honestly? I don't know. For now, though, perhaps we should just talk."

"You should go ahead and page them," Mark said. "Because I have nothing to say." He let his head drop into his arms, dragging his hands through his hair. "I have nothing to say," he repeated in a softer voice. "What the hell can I say?"

Derek sat down and leaned against the wall. "Then I'll just stay with you for a while. If that's okay." This couldn't go on indefinitely, but he could give his friend a little time.

Mark gave a nod that was only just perceptible. Then, after a long pause, he said, very quietly, "Thank you."

* * *

_Title song_: _**Drown Out**_, by Glen Hansard

_Drown out, the voice that breaks the silence  
And talks the joy out of everything  
You were found out and had to walk  
In darkness without the only thing you care about_


	11. Grey Would Be the Color If I Had a Heart

A/N: I'm sorry I took so long with this update. Thank you very much for all the reviews for the last chapter; that really meant a lot to me.

**Warning: please be aware that this chapter contains material that some readers may find disturbing.**

* * *

Chapter 11 – Grey Would Be the Color If I Had a Heart

Mark felt in his jacket pocket absently and pulled out the now slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes, followed by his lighter, and started to tip out a cigarette.

"You're smoking now?"

He had almost forgotten that Derek was there. Whether they had been sitting here for hours or just minutes, Mark had no real idea. His mind was somewhere else, with the phantoms that refused to leave him alone.

Squinting a little at Derek, the unlit cigarette in his hand, it took him a few seconds to respond. His voice and his thoughts had lost their automatic connection and his throat was dry and, in the end, all that came out was a croaked, "Yeah, I —" followed by a small shrug. His hands shaking a little, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

Derek watched with distaste as the smoke drifted in his direction, and scanned the windowless room for air vents. But, really, his aversion was just a welcome, temporary distraction from feeling useless and at a loss what to do next. Paging Psych seemed less and less like a last resort and increasingly like the only option. During the past half-hour, he had tried to get Mark to talk, saying his name, asking simple questions, softly, with decent intervals in between, but Mark gave no real sign that he'd even heard him, until just now. Derek supposed that was a start.

Mark blew smoke through his nose and then cleared his throat noisily. "Pass me the trash can, would you?" he asked hoarsely, pointing to the base of the desk.

Derek reached over and picked up the metal container and handed it to Mark, who dumped out the three or four scrunched up pieces of paper it held, and flicked ash into it before setting it on the floor next to him. He sighed deeply and puffed on the cigarette again.

"I told her," Mark said, his voice deep and quiet. "I told her I'd hurt her." He closed his eyes. The image of his mother burned into his mind and he rubbed his eyelids with the back of his hand, trying to push it all away. But nothing helped. Nothing made any of it go away. He opened his eyes again and looked in Derek's direction; if for no other reason, just to have some kind of witness that he was speaking out loud, and something to look at that wasn't inside his own head. "It's like being under a fucking curse."

Derek coughed awkwardly. "I heard you broke up with Meredith."

"She's better off."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Mark shook his head, stubbed out the half-finished cigarette aggressively, then immediately shook out a fresh one and lit it. Derek considered making a comment but thought better of it. Smoking, other than being another worrying symptom, wasn't exactly the most serious of Mark's problems right now.

A loud knock startled both of them and, without waiting to be invited, Alex Karev opened the door abruptly and came in.

"Dr. Karev." Derek stood up and walked a couple of paces towards Alex, instinctively shielding Mark, who hunched even further into himself.

Alex took in the scene in the room and shifted uncomfortably. "I need to talk to Dr. Sloan." His eyes flickered towards Mark, then back to Derek. "The Chief sent me."

"Why don't you tell me?" Derek said, aware and slightly disturbed that his voice had taken on the self-consciously calm quality that people use around the mentally ill. He moved a little closer to Alex and raised an eyebrow expectantly. "I'll—"

"What?" Mark interrupted, his voice surprisingly strong, and looked up at the two men.

Alex peered over Derek's head, into Mark's eyes, searching his face.

"What, Karev?" Mark repeated irritably, almost but not quite sounding like the person everyone, including himself, expected him to be.

"You blew off the rhinoplasty," Alex finally said, his eyes alternating between staring at the floor and taking glances at Mark. "The Chief wants to see you.

"Something came up," Mark deadpanned; at least he tried to. But his voice had given up on him again and the attempt at humor got lost in his obvious sadness and confusion.

Alex nodded awkwardly and Derek allowed a frustrated sigh to escape, before smiling in a conclusive way to indicate that the conversation was over and trying to usher Alex to the door.

"The Chief suspended your surgical privileges until you go see him." Alex's words were rough and quick as he tried to conceal his worry for Mark.

Mark slowly raised his eyes, and Alex had to look away again when he saw the pain there.

"He fired me?"

"He—"

"He suspended your surgical privileges," Derek broke in patiently. He wanted to spare Alex the discomfort of this discussion. "He didn't fire you. You just need to talk to him. When you're ready. Richard's a reasonable man."

Mark nodded. Other than that, he gave no response, except to visibly withdraw yet further into disconnected dejection.

Derek briefly closed his eyes and sighed again, curtailing the sound when he heard the blatant exasperation it expressed. "Karev," he said under his breath. "Please tell the Chief that you left the matter in my hands and that Dr. Sloan . . . or, if he isn't able to, I . . . never mind. One of us will talk to him later."

"'Okay," Alex said hesitantly. He eyed Derek and then blurted out, "What the hell is wrong with him?" He hated that it mattered to him so much.

Derek shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "He's had a hard year."

"You think he could be having trouble adjusting to being in remission? You know, that now he's well it's all hit him?" Alex asked echoing Derek's own suggestion the last time he'd talked to Mark. But then he looked down and inhaled. "It seems like it's more than that, though." He indicated Mark, who had shut himself off from the conversation, knees drawn up to his chest, one arm wrapped around them, with his head resting on that arm; the other hand held a lit cigarette.

Derek steered Alex towards the door again. "Have Dr. Torres push my DCS implantation to tomorrow. I might be here a while." He paused. "And would you do me a favor, Karev? After you've seen the Chief and Torres?"

Alex nodded cautiously.

"Could you find me some coffee? Two coffees? And," he looked around quickly at Mark, "perhaps a blanket?"

"You think he's going to be okay?"

Derek shrugged. "I hope so," he said. But he had no certainty about this and it was evident in his voice.

Alex swallowed. "Bone dry double cap, right?" It was a gesture. Getting the right kind of coffee seemed like some kind of support. The only support he could offer.

Derek smiled. "I'm sure he'll appreciate that." Actually, he wasn't sure; he doubted that Mark would care. But Karev's suggestion made _him_ feel a little better. He stole another glance at the broken man sitting on the floor on the other side of the office and felt a moment's nostalgia for the bombastic ass who demanded the perfect coffee, hit on anything female and reveled in his surgical abilities. Derek almost had difficulty believing they were the same person.

* * *

"Mark." Someone was shaking him and he unstuck his bleary eyes and looked up to see Derek's face.

"Derek?" Mark didn't understand what was happening or where he was at first, but as consciousness returned, he realized he was lying on a hard floor, curled in a ball. Yet another memory from childhood; another recreation. It was getting so the past bled into the present so much that he hardly knew who or where he was.

"You fell asleep." Derek was reticent, choosing his words carefully. "It seemed as though you were having a nightmare and I thought I should wake you." He didn't know how to bring up the fact that Mark had been whimpering and sobbing in his sleep, and that his reason for waking him was that he couldn't bear it.

Mark pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall with a groan. A blanket slid down his body, dislodged by the movement and he fingered the soft fabric and looked at Derek questioningly.

"Karev brought it. I asked him to." Again, Derek's words were cautious. "I was worried you might be cold."

Mark swallowed to lubricate his throat, which was now dry to the point of soreness, and said, "Thank you."

"Better than that," Derek stood up and walked towards the desk, a falsely bright smile on his face, "he brought coffee." He picked up a cup and brought it over to Mark. "It's probably barely warm by now, though."

"Doesn't matter." Mark took the cup gratefully, pulled off the lid and drank down half the liquid. He hadn't realized before now how thirsty he was and how much he craved caffeine.

"Bone dry cap. Karev's idea," Derek said, a little over-enthusiastically.

Mark peered into the cup, then back at Derek. "Oh, yeah," he said without interest and then gave short laugh. He used to care about this; before Meredith; before his life shattered into this mess of memories and pain and self-hatred. But at some level he appreciated the thought, even though he felt bad that he'd dragged Alex into all this. "Poor bastard. I'll bet he wishes he'd stayed in neonatal." He put down the coffee cup, rifled under the blanket and pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

"He obviously likes working with you," Derek said. "It's also obvious that he cares about you. So does Torres." He paused and then added quietly, "So do I."

Mark nodded. He couldn't take it all in. He had no right to expect anybody to care about him. This morning, with Meredith, he'd proved that.

"Do you feel like talking now?" Derek ventured.

Mark shook his head. "No." He took a long drag on the cigarette. "Why are you here, anyway?" He wanted Derek there, but how could he sit here and accept his friendship after what he'd done to her? Nobody should be his friend. Nobody _would_ be if they knew any of it. "It's not like we're really friends anymore."

Derek sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm here because apparently you're punching people out and missing surgeries and now you're sitting on the floor of your office chain smoking. I'm here because Torres thinks you're suicidal. I'm here because," he hesitated, "because you broke up with Meredith, which isn't something I think you'd do easily. I don't think anybody would break up with Meredith easily. And the fact that I _am _here after she left me for you ought to tell you that you and I are friends."

"Callie thinks I'm going to kill myself?"

"Well, she's worried about you. She thought you were behaving oddly and she asked me to check on you."

"You think she reached that conclusion before or after she hit on me?" Derek gave him a confused look and he shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It's not her fault. She was just trying to be nice."

"What isn't her fault, Mark? It might help if you talked"

Mark ground the cigarette against the side of the trashcan and stood up. "I'm going to find the Chief."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Derek said quietly.

"No? Actually I think saving my job could be about the best idea I've had all fucking week."

"I don't think you're going to convince Richard in your present frame of mind," Derek persisted. "You're . . ." what? volatile? unstable? borderline psychotic? "You're not yourself and you look like crap. Right now, you'll just confirm whatever suspicions he already has. Why don't you talk to me and —"

"Because it's all I have left, Derek. Being a surgeon is the only thing I have left that feels like me." And that was it. Whatever hadn't hit Mark before now hit with full force and, as the last of his willpower drained away, he sank back down to the floor, resuming his position against the wall.

After a moment, Derek spoke again. "What happened, Mark?"

"It caught up with me," Mark said quietly, staring blankly at the wall on the other side of the room. "I finally became what she made me."

Derek stopped himself from interrupting to ask for an explanation. It seemed more important to let Mark continue to talk now that he had begun.

"I never wanted to be like them. It was the last thing I wanted. And I told her." Mark turned his head to look at Derek, his eyes haunted and desperate. "I fucking told her not to have anything to do with me. I warned her off me. I pushed her away. Because I knew." He took a painful breath. "I _knew_ I'd hurt her." He laughed bitterly. "Because you can refuse their money, but you can't refuse the rest of the fucking legacy. Eventually it all comes back." He inhaled. "Meredith was right all along."

"So this is something to do with your family?"

"It's always something to do with my family. How do you think I got to be the way I am?"

After another pause, Derek asked. "Do you think this could be a side effect of your meds? I read that approximately a third of patients undergoing cytokine treatment develop depression. There's a very strong correlation. Perhaps Julia could help? Or . . ." He trailed off, knowing, before Mark even responded, that this explanation was inadequate, wishful thinking and that he was just speaking for the sake it.

"It's not the meds," Mark said irritably. He realized that he had forgotten to take his meds the last couple of days and he wasn't even sure that he cared. Death had, as Julia had once put it, seemed like the easy way out at the beginning of his cancer treatment; and right now, it seemed like a shame for everybody, himself included, that it hadn't worked out that way. He remembered telling Meredith how cancer had been a gift, because it brought her to him. Then he just remembered Meredith.

Mark picked up the coffee cup again and turned it around in his hand. "I bought her a caramel latte."

"Excuse me?"

"She said, if I loved her, I should buy her a caramel latte. So I bought her a caramel latte."

He remembered the simplicity of the whole thing, of how he and Meredith used to be, before his fucked-up reactions to her natural need to share; before he . . . before he did _that_ to her. He wished he could tell her. He wished he could say, 'It wasn't you; you didn't do anything wrong.' But what good would it do? What possible difference could it make now, after what he'd done? And, anyway, he wouldn't be able to explain, because he didn't want her to know. He didn't want her to know what he came from, what had been done to him. The only thing he could do for her now was spare her the need to feel pity for him, and spare himself the pain of seeing it in her eyes.

"What happened, Mark?" Derek asked softly, pushing for an answer.

"I can't," Mark said. "I can't talk about it. I don't know how. And I don't want to, okay? I don't want —" He covered his eyes with his hands, shaken by another wave of guilt and pain and realization. There was no escape. There were no words that would do justice to this. No rationalizations. No thoughts. Not even self-recrimination. Nothing could make any of it any better. "Why the fuck didn't somebody do something?" he choked out. "Why the fuck wasn't someone there to stop it?"

He heard Derek move closer and felt his hand on his shoulder. At first, it made him flinch, but he allowed it to stay there anyway. Something had broken inside him and Derek's proximity, even though he didn't deserve it, was comforting.

"What happened?" Derek repeated yet again.

"I think I remembered before," Mark muttered. "On my seventeenth birthday. I'm not certain. But I think I remembered before."

Not understanding, Derek didn't reply, but tried to offer silent encouragement.

"And I think I tried to tell you. When we were little kids. It probably didn't come out right. But I think I tried to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

Mark uncovered his eyes and stared desperately at Derek. "If somebody had done something, maybe it would've been different. It could have been, right? I wouldn't have done that. If somebody had stopped her. I wouldn't have ended up —" He broke off abruptly. "Christ, Derek. What the fuck did I do? How could I do that? To anyone? How could I do that to Meredith?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is only a suggestion, Mark. But perhaps a psychiatrist could help you sort through what you're feeling."

"I'm talking to you aren't I?"

"Yes, but —"

"I had to report a guy once. Back in New York."

Derek sighed.

"I got called in for a facial lac. But the woman was shaking and scared and nobody was talking to her. You know how they were back there. So I tried and it all came out." He paused. "Aggravated Sexual Contact. It's a felony."

"I know that, Mark. I'm a doctor too, remember? But what does it have to do with anything?"

"That's what I've become," Mark said bleakly. "I'm that guy."

Derek froze, his mind leaping to conclusions that he couldn't bring himself to believe were real. "What exactly do you mean?" he demanded. When no response came, he repeated himself, his voice growing colder with each word. "What do you mean, Mark? Are you telling me you hurt Meredith?"

Mark nodded, swamped by self-disgust and unable to speak.

"You're seriously telling me that you assaulted Meredith?" Derek almost yelled. The only reason that he was still in the room was the hope that this was some kind of delusion. The problem was, all his instincts told him it wasn't. "Why? Why would you do that?" It was, honestly, a stupid question, but Derek needed the outlet of words and he genuinely needed to know why.

Mark shook his head. He'd done it because he couldn't tell the difference between his childhood and now, between dreams and reality. But nobody would understand that, especially when he didn't understand it himself.

"You don't get to do that," Derek straightened up and got to his feet, towering over Mark. "You don't get to do that and tell me about it and then just shake your head. Why? What kind of man are you? Because after what we've been through, I wouldn't put many things past you. But that? I wouldn't have thought even you were capable of . . ." Derek trailed off, sickened, and raised his hands in defeat. He walked a few paces towards the door. "I can't look at you. I can't be here. I . . ."

"I'm sorry," Mark said.

"You're sorry? You think that makes it better? I asked you to look after her. You promised you would look after her. You really think 'sorry' cuts it?"

"No," Mark shook his head. "But she's better off without me. And now she knows that."

"Oh, come on, Mark. We've been through all this before. In this very office. Clearly these bouts of remorse and pretend self-knowledge are meaningless."

Mark nodded slowly. He looked at Derek and swallowed. "Meredith was my lifeline," he said very quietly. He wasn't really following the conversation now. His mind was filled with jumbled emotions and images and pain. He'd confessed the worst thing he'd ever done and, even if Derek didn't give a damn anymore, he had the desperate urge to tell him the rest.

"You have a remarkably funny way of showing it," Derek hissed.

"Yeah," Mark said and looked down at the floor. "I think it kind of goes with the territory."

"Excuse me?" Derek barked, incensed by Mark's apparent flippancy. "What territory exactly? Being a sexual deviant?"

"Maybe." Mark took a deep, difficult breath. "I was sexually abused."

The words were muffled, withheld, almost inaudible. But Derek had heard them and they stopped him in his tracks.

"What did you say?"

Mark looked into his eyes. "I was sexually abused. I blocked it out."

Derek stared at him, indecisive until his anger about Meredith won out again. He reached for his pager. "I think violent and delusional probably calls for a psych consult, don't you?" He started to input the numbers and then stopped short, disconcerted by the pain in Mark's eyes. "Who the hell sexually abused you? I've known you since you were six. How come this never came up?"

"I think I told you. It doesn't matter. We were kids. I probably wasn't clear. I just think I told you." Another memory flooded into Mark's mind. "I think I told you after I tried to tell my . . . him."

"Him?" Derek's certainty was flagging.

"Doug."

"Your father?"

Mark nodded. "You were right. About the dreams." He let out a short, hysterical laugh and tears formed in his eyes. "My fucking mother wanted to fuck me, Derek. Hell, she probably did and I just haven't uncovered that memory yet."

"Your mother?"

Mark nodded again.

"Your mother sexually abused you?"

"Yep." Mark sighed.

"Abused you how?" It was an inappropriate question and Derek didn't want to know the answer. But he had to make a choice, now, between fury and compassion. To do that, he had to know if what Mark was saying was true and this question was the best his overwhelmed brain could come up with.

"You're seriously asking me for details?" In Mark's mind, his mother's image flaunted itself again, and he squeezed his eyes shut, a reflex that he already knew made it worse but couldn't help, then quickly opened them again.

"No . . . of course, not. I just . . ." Derek pulled himself together. "You told me before?"

"I don't know, Derek. I think so. Like I said, we were kids. I guess I hoped you'd tell your mom. It's no big deal." He sighed. "She stopped anyway, in the end. After that it was just routine emotional abuse. But you know all about that."

Derek retraced the few steps he had taken away from Mark and crouched down in front of him.

"What?" Mark asked, defiantly, fighting his need to cry. "It doesn't change anything. _I'm _the abuser now."

"You're telling me the truth?"

"Why the fuck would I lie about it, Derek? What possible reason would I have to lie?"

"It changes something," Derek said.

Neither of them spoke again for what seemed like an eternity of slow-moving minutes, until Mark broke the silence.

"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered. "I don't know what I think or feel or who I'm supposed to be. I don't understand myself. I don't know if my choices are mine or just . . . fuck, I don't know . . ." The tears now began to run down his face and he didn't bother to wipe them away or check them.

Watching Mark, trying to make sense of everything he had just heard, Derek felt the weight of their friendship; of all the years they had known each other. He had learned a lot about Mark during the past year. Now another layer had been uncovered and one that he didn't know how to work into his stance on life. All the time he and Mark had been friends as children, Mark had carried this horrible scar around with him. When Derek forced him to go fishing with him; when Mark attempted to teach him to play football and how to hit on girls; when they were in med school, as interns, at Derek's wedding. All of it.

Very carefully, he lowered himself to the ground and sat down next to Mark. "I can't forgive you for Meredith."

"You think I can forgive myself?"

"I'm just being honest," Derek said quietly, almost gently, but still determined. "That's how I feel. I can't help it. But the other stuff. The abuse. I want you to know that I believe you. I met your mother too many times and I saw how she was. I don't want to believe you. I don't want to think that this happened to you. But I believe you. And, for that, I'm here for you. I've known you too long to leave you to deal with this by yourself."

Mark snorted and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "I don't want her to fucking win." Tears trickled from his eyes again. "I thought I'd escaped, Derek. But now it's all turned to shit."

Derek had no words. Instead, slowly, he put an arm around Mark's shoulder and Mark accepted it quietly, without fuss or deflection and rested against his friend.

"Will you let me page Psych?" Derek asked. "I'll stay with you if you want me to. But you need to see someone."

After a pause, Mark nodded his acquiescence and Derek got out his pager and input the code and the message.

"Do you need anything, while we're waiting?"

Mark shook his head.

"You'll get through this." Derek tried to reassure him.

Mark swallowed. "Except I've lost my job —"

"You don't know that, Mark. Like I said, Richard's a reasonable man and I'll talk to him. Everyone's allowed to get sick. Until last year, you never had so much as a head cold."

"Meredith was . . . I loved her."

"I'm not talking to you about Meredith," Derek said tightly. "Anything else, but not Meredith. I told you that."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Yeah, I know. But I need to say this." Mark sighed. "You were right, when you said I bring everything down to my level. I brought you down. I screwed up your whole —"

"Okay, that's enough now," Derek interrupted softly. His conflicted emotions meant he could be there, but not talk. He didn't trust himself not to get angry; and he didn't want to say anything that would make Mark worse. "Let's just wait for the psychiatrist. Okay?"

Mark nodded. The prospect of seeing a psychiatrist scared the shit out of him. He was scared of the diagnosis; scared of the treatment; scared of being categorized as something pathologically broken that couldn't be mended, just had to be managed. And he couldn't even pretend. His ability to construct a convincing façade had eroded and now he was just exposed, as himself, utterly flawed and helpless and without the slightest clue how he was going to go on. But somehow Derek – the honesty they had just shared; his support despite everything – made it seem possible to try. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, but this time he left it unlit.

* * *

_Title song:_ _**Something I Can Never Have**_, Nine Inch Nails

_In this place it seems like such a shame.  
Though it all looks different now,  
I know it's still the same  
Everywhere I look you're all I see.  
Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be._


	12. Leave the Thought of Us Behind

A/N: Just to say, I am very sorry for the long delay updating. I'll try to get the next chapter out a little quicker. Thank you for your patience and for reading.

**Warning: please be aware that this chapter contains material that some readers may find disturbing.**

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* * *

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Chapter 12 – Leave the Thought of Us Behind

Meredith sat on the gurney in the basement, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at the wall in front of her.

Since her conversation with Cristina, she had been busy trying to prove to herself that she was fine and, up until now, she kind of had been. She spent most of the day in the OR with Dr. Bailey doing an exploratory laparotomy, followed by an emergency anterior gastrotomy. Hours and hours of surgery and suction and Bailey's soothingly bad-tempered complaints and instructions; it had been like an oasis of avoidance and denial.

But eventually she had to come out and, overwhelmed, she had fled before anyone — and specifically Cristina, who was obviously concerned about her and whose usually reliable acceptance of the 'I'm fine' defense was likely to be time-limited — could ask her questions and found her way down here. Now she was finding it hard to muster the willpower to go back up again. What did you do when something hurt so much you'd gone beyond the stage of even feeling it; beyond the stage of being miserable until all you wanted to do was sit and stare at walls?

She knew all about managing pain. She had been doing it most of her life, in the long stretches between those little hiatuses of illusory happiness. You worked, you drank, you slept (sometimes with wrong people you found during the drinking part) and you pushed through until some kind of new future revealed itself along with some kind of hope. Until you forgot all the friendship and love and passion; forgot the feel of his hand against your cheek and the way he smiled when you did something good in the OR and the way he rested his forehead against you a few seconds after he came; until you forgot how much you had loved him.

. . . "_I make you feel safe, remember?"_ . . . she heard Mark say and she almost cried, until she forced out the haunting sense of loss with an angry dose of reality.

"Made!" she spat out loud. "_Made _me feel safe. Past freaking tense." Because all of that was gone, finished, over and he had made it all too clear that he was the opposite of safe to be around.

She jumped off the gurney and smoothed down her wrinkled scrubs. It was pointless sitting here, wallowing. What possible good could it do? Whatever she regretted didn't exist any longer and staring at a wall wasn't going to bring it back. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, preparing herself. Appropriate really — or tragically ironic: they always told the family to prepare themselves when a patient was likely to die and Meredith felt like, early this morning, she already had.

* * *

The door to the Chief's office was slightly ajar and Derek knocked softly. But Richard was immersed in paperwork and didn't look up, and this bought Derek a little extra time.

There was a part of him that didn't want to be here: didn't want to have to act as Mark's advocate and defend him when Richard Webber began his predictable rant; didn't want any part of this friendship any longer. He didn't know if he could ever get past Mark's admission about Meredith, or if he even ought to try. He had loved Meredith so much at one time (and perhaps he still did at some level) and the thought of Mark assaulting – no, let's be honest here, raping – her made his insides twist with rage. Trust was so difficult for her and yet she had seemed to trust Mark by instinct and he had taken this gift and brutally turned it against her.

He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. This friendship, this fucked-up symbiosis that they laughably called a brotherhood had become too complicated, too compromised, a recurring exercise in forgiveness for each next thoughtless screw-up that always left somebody's life broken. He wished that, that day on the school bus, he'd never had a spare seat next to him, never said 'hi' to Mark when he sat down and never responded to the conversation about baseball and dinosaurs and how mean the teachers were. Maybe if they'd never had that conversation, they would never have met at all and everybody's lives would be simpler and better and less full of regret.

"Derek?" Richard said through the crack in the door, breaking into Derek's thoughts. "Something I can do for you?"

With a sigh, Derek pushed open the door and walked in to the office.

"Karev said you wanted to see Mark," he said, his voice betraying the weariness he felt.

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Over two hours ago," he snapped. "And I meant in person, not by proxy. The man punched out a nurse, Derek!"

Derek nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "He, uh . . . Mark was admitted to the Psych ward around twenty minutes ago."

"Excuse me?" Richard asked incredulously.

"Mark is a psych patient," Derek said. "Probably only overnight . . . maybe tomorrow. But he wasn't in any condition to talk to you and I promised I'd let you know."

"You're telling me that Psych committed my Head of Plastics?" Richard demanded and scrutinized the pre-programmed numbers on his phone looking for someone to yell at.

"No," Derek sighed. "They didn't commit him. It's entirely voluntary." It wasn't entirely true: Mark hadn't been committed, but he hadn't really been capable of agreeing or disagreeing and Derek, as healthcare proxy, had given the go-ahead. "He didn't respond very well to the psych eval and Dr. Hanlan —"

"Who the hell is that? A resident?"

Derek nodded. "He's a fifth year resident. He was the psychiatrist on call. And he thought it would be advisable to admit Mark. Apart from anything else, he needed fluids and he desperately needed rest." He paused. "Dr. Hanlan sedated him."

"Do they have some kind of working diagnosis?" Richard asked, adding sardonically, "Other than chronic sex addiction and violence towards his colleagues — because don't think I don't know about his fist connecting with your face outside the OR last year. In front of an intern!"

"That was personal," Derek said quietly. "I may have deserved it." He smiled and gave a short, rueful laugh. "Anyway, I punched _him_ the first day he ever set foot here, remember?" He ignored the remark about sexual addiction — Richard had no means of knowing how cruelly inappropriate it was today. "They haven't made a diagnosis yet."

Richard made a disgruntled noise. "Well, he definitely deserved _that_. You're a very tolerant man Derek." He sighed deeply. "Don't they have some idea what's wrong with him? Couldn't it be connected to his cancer or the treatment?"

"There's no diagnosis yet," Derek repeated. It might have been easier if he could tell Richard what he knew, but that was something that only Mark could choose to share.

Richard narrowed his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked. "I know he's your friend, but —"

"He's not my friend," Derek broke in harshly, unable to accept this definition right now. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled. "But he _is_ my family." He nodded as if to affirm this to himself. "I've known him a long time, Richard. I can't tell you any more without breaking his confidence. I _can_ tell you that he's going through hell."

He realized, as he heard the words come out of his mouth, that, deserved or not, he wasn't capable of hating Mark. There was too much history, too much background and, whether he liked it or not, underneath all that, too much love. He didn't have a choice about being there for Mark. He just was.

"Does Meredith know?" Richard asked.

Derek shook his head. "I don't think so. I understand she was in the OR all day with Bailey and then she disappeared. I don't think she'd even heard the gossip about the nurse." He paused. "They broke up – she and Mark."

Richard sighed. "Is she okay?" he asked. "I never liked them being together. I turned a blind eye, because," he gave Derek an awkward look, "my interference didn't seem to do much good for you and her. But I never liked it. I always thought he'd hurt her."

"I think _he _did too," Derek said quietly. "I'm not sure that's any of our business though." He paused and then cleared his throat. "Richard, is there any chance you could lift the suspension of Mark's privileges? It wouldn't make any difference to you – he won't be working anyway, but I think it would make a difference to him. Maybe you could just put him on medical leave?"

Richard shook his head grimly. "No," he said. "I can't do that, so don't ask me, Derek. I need to talk to him and understand what's going on first. But . . ." He rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a hospital directory, then put on his reading glasses and leafed through it until he reached the page he wanted. "Wyatt," he announced and looked up at Derek, removing his glasses. "There's an attending up there, a Dr. Wyatt. I'm told she's good and that she tells it like it is – no psychoanalytic frills or time wasting. I'll ask her to evaluate him and, based on her opinion, I'll decide what to do next." He made the disgruntled noise again. "I guess I owe him that much," he said. "He brings in a lot of money – when he's not costing the hospital money with lawsuits — and he impressed me when he worked through the cancer."

"Thank you," Derek said and then added quietly. "Mark's a survivor. I'm sure it will work out." It was intended to be a little reassurance for a boss worried about making a wrong decision, but he realized that his words meant more than that. Mark really was a survivor and again Derek couldn't help re-evaluating their shared past. The cocky little kid on the school bus had gone home that day and the days before and after to horrifying humiliation and abuse. Derek wondered whether he would have survived as well if that had been his life.

* * *

Mark woke up in a hospital room. His muscles ached and, when he tried to get more comfortable, he felt an IV line tug at his arm.

He could remember being with Derek, waiting for the consult. He could just about remember some guy, a resident maybe, asking him questions that he couldn't answer. After that, he couldn't remember anything. It was inevitable that they were going to admit him to Psych. He'd known that when he agreed to the consult. But he had no idea how he'd gotten from his office to this room.

His eyes were sticky and raw and felt as though he'd been crying again. His throat hurt and his head ached and he had no idea what was happening to him. He'd been sleeping, though, not dreaming and he figured someone had prescribed a sedative. He hoped whoever it was would come back and prescribe more, because that was the only way he was going to cope.

"Dr. Sloan."

Mark opened his eyes. A woman, dressed in light green scrubs, was bending over him. A little piece of her long, blonde-streaked brown hair had escaped from her ponytail and trailed towards him and her proximity and the memory of his mother's hair and memories of Meredith's hair and his reflex of tucking it behind her ear collided in his mind and he had to turn his head away from her for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" the woman asked and Mark turned back and looked at her. She seemed familiar and not just by association.

"Have we met?" he asked hoarsely and to his surprise she gave a little, bitter laugh.

"That's exactly what you said last time," she said sarcastically. "I guess that's one of your regular lines, huh?" She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. Why don't we start over?" She forced a weak smile. "I'm Nadine. I'm one of your nurses. Anything you need —"

"We had sex?" Mark interrupted in a quiet voice, hoping that he had misunderstood.

Nadine — he only knew her name because she'd just told him — nodded. Clearly she was trying to do her job, but he could sense the dislike under her professionally kind demeanour.

Mark swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. The apology wasn't really personal, although it might be easier if she took it that way. He was aware of an urgent need to protect himself, and saying sorry seemed to be the quickest way to accomplish this. Nurses were everywhere: when he'd gone through a stage of fucking a different one (or two . . . or three) each night after Addison left, it had never occurred to him that he would be a patient at Seattle Grace. For some reason, he'd been lucky with the Oncology nurses and none of them (at least the ones who had treated him) had slept with him. But this, now . . . he couldn't deal with it. So he apologized and hoped that would be enough that she'd drop it, because added to everything else, the painful irony of this situation was unbearable.

"If you like, I can find you another nurse," she offered.

Mark laughed softly. "You think there's anyone on this floor that I haven't slept with?"

She didn't answer at once. Her eyes scanned his face and there was an instant of compassion in the midst of her barely stifled resentment that Mark had to look away from. He didn't merit compassion. His damage was the kind that inspires contempt, not consideration. And he didn't want her pity: he didn't deserve it and the small part of him that still clung on to any kind of sense of himself fought against it.

"It's hard," she said. "It's an adjustment, having you here as a patient." She smiled again, trying to look reassuring. "Everybody knows who you are and, like I said, it's an adjustment. But that doesn't mean we won't do everything we can for you. You have the same right to our care as any other patient and I was out of line just now."

"Karma finally bit the arrogant son-of-a-bitch on the ass, right?" Mark suggested gruffly, but any answer the nurse might have given was drowned out when he started coughing violently. She helped him sit up and rubbed his back, but nothing seemed to help and the coughing got worse and worse, tearing at his lungs and stomach, and only let up when he spat sputum and bile into the metal bowl that was held out for him.

"What did I say about karma?" Mark croaked when he was done and lay slowly back down. "I started smoking and I guess . . ." he began to explain, but he didn't have the energy to continue. He stretched his neck wearily around to try to look at the drip. "You sedated me, right?"

"Yes, Dr. Sloan," Nadine said. "But that's just saline now. You need fluids."

"You think you could do it again?" he asked. He couldn't take any more of this. It had been good being unconscious for a while.

"That's not my decision," she said.

"Find someone whose decision it is then," Mark growled and closed his eyes. He lay still, trying to stop his mind from churning, until a voice broke into his thoughts.

"Good to see you awake, Dr. . . . uh, Mark."

When he opened his eyes, he saw a slightly built, dark-haired man who was smiling a little nervously.

"That's your opinion," Mark muttered. "What'd be good is if you sedated me again." This was the guy who had asked him the questions.

"Do you remember my name, Mark?" he asked. "Or what we talked about?"

Mark shook his head. He felt like his brain was going to implode. "Seriously, I can't do this right now."

"I'm Dr. Hanlan," the doctor said. "I know you're feeling bad. But now that you're awake I'd like to try to continue with our assessment. I can give you something to help you sleep later. But I need to make a diagnosis. I'm sure, as a surgeon, you understand."

"A diagnosis?" Mark asked suspiciously. "What do you need to diagnose? I'm broken, fucked – literally and figuratively – from the day I was born. That's your damn diagnosis. What the hell else do you need to diagnose?"

Dr. Hanlan coughed awkwardly. "We have procedures, exactly like surgeons. We need to rule out organic factors or any underlying psychiatric illness."

Mark pushed himself up on one elbow and stared hard at the doctor. "You're saying you don't believe me," he said. It came out as angry, but the only purpose this served was to obscure the desperation that was welling up inside him.

"Try to stay calm," Dr. Hanlan urged. "I know this is difficult for you and you made your objections clear at the consult. But we have to rule out other factors – your immunotherapy program, for example – before we can make a diagnosis and determine a course of treatment. Exactly like surgery."

Mark's stare intensified. "What are you, anyway, a fourth year resident?"

"Fifth year, Mark, we went over that in your office."

"Yeah, well. I might be a washed-up mess now, but this morning I out-ranked you. So let me try a little diagnosing to save us fucking around with discussions about neurology and cytokines and late onset Schizophrenia."

"Dr. Sloan."

Mark ignored him. "My mother used me as a sex toy. It's not a brain tumor or a psychotic delusion or anything else organic or underlying. The only delusion was that I ever believed I had a chance of living a good life." He bowed his head and inhaled. "Dr. Hanlan. My mother was the first woman I ever went down on. I don't suppose I was very good." He gave what was intended to be short, dry laugh, but came out more like a sob. "I was somewhere around six years old and from what I can remember I was nauseous and shaking and trying like hell not to cry and, as you might expect, I didn't know what I was meant to be doing – except that she kept on giving me instructions . . . " He trailed off for a moment as the memory became more and more detailed. "In this soft voice . . . encouraging me, you know? Like other kids' moms probably use when they're teaching them to ride a bike or something. I don't know. I taught myself pretty much all the normal things. Or Derek's parents did. Or I just didn't learn them." He sighed. "Anyway, that's not the point."

"Mark." The psychiatrist's voice was gentle now.

"Shut the fuck up and listen! You wanted a diagnosis. Well, I'm giving you one." He swallowed. "She was the first. There have been hundreds since then and, trust me, I got a whole hell of a lot better at it. But my mother was the first." He looked into the doctor's eyes. "If that was in your head, wouldn't you want someone to sedate you? At least until you'd had more than a few hours to get used to it?"

He didn't mention the part where the image of Meredith's face looking up at him in terror and something close to hatred nearly killed him every time he thought about it.

Dr. Hanlan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, hesitating before he offered a response.

"I'm sorry," Mark said quietly. "I . . . I didn't need to be so . . . blunt. I just wanted to make you understand. I guess that's how the consult ended and I wound up here, right?"

The psychiatrist nodded. "It was never a question of not believing you, Mark." He glanced at the IV. "But I guess I can give you a little more time."

"Thank you. I mean that," Mark said softly and sank back against the pillow.

* * *

On her way up to the surgical floor, Meredith decided she needed coffee and made a detour to the coffee cart.

Lost in thought, trying to work up the determination to present herself to Dr. Bailey and explain her absence, she wasn't paying attention when the vendor asked her what she'd like and she answered on autopilot.

"Double caramel latte, please." Then, desperately, she corrected herself. "No! Not that. Just whatever . . . coffee." Again, she almost cried, from anger and frustration and the sinking sense of loss. Mark had been so much a part of her life, so entwined in all her feelings and thoughts and routines, that he haunted the simplest, most ordinary events.

"What kind of coffee do you want, ma'am?" the vendor asked.

Meredith gaped at him. _Just whatever . . . coffee_ was the best answer she had right now.

"Meredith." She turned at the sound of Derek's voice in her ear. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Yes. I was just . . . I thought I wanted . . . " She turned to the coffee vendor. "I'm fine. I don't know what I want. I'll just," she pointed vaguely in the opposite direction. "I'll just be over here and, when I know what I want, I'll let you know." She smiled awkwardly at the small line that had formed behind her and stepped to the side. Derek followed her.

"What?" she laughed, feigning playfulness. His eyes were starting to develop that soft look of absolute, wordless understanding that he was so good at and it stimulated a small, nagging need for crying and hugging that she couldn't allow herself to give into.

The look continued; the question _Are you all right?_ implicitly repeated in every slight eye movement.

"What?" she said again, more assertively this time. Then the compassion in his eyes intensified and her stomach dropped. "He told you? Seriously! He freaking _told _you?" She could feel her face burning with anger and what could only be described as shame. The small need to cry became a vast urge to lash out at Derek for being a witness to the violent disintegration of her life and her self-respect or, failing that, to just give up and weep uncontrollably on his shoulder. But all she managed was to stand, frozen and stare at him and wish she had the presence of mind to turn around and leave.

"I'm sorry, Meredith." He came a little closer, making sure not to crowd her and cursing the remains of the intimacy that had allowed her to work out from his expression what he would never in a million years have said out loud to her.

She felt warm tears filling her eyes and spilling out down her face and didn't even try to stop them. Despite that, she made herself shrug. "I guess you can say 'I told you so,'" she blurted. "You were right. It didn't work out. It's over. And everything you ever said about him? Well, you were right. In fact, you didn't go far enough."

"Meredith," he said softly and reached out a hand, but she jerked away from him.

"Or maybe you're on one of your 'on again' phases and you're here to tell me he's a good guy and he's sorry and I should take him back." She was barely coherent now through the tears.

Derek shook his head. "I would never do that," he said and then repeated himself more forcefully. "I would _never_ do that." He couldn't invade her privacy any further than he already had done, but he wanted her to be clear that in this matter, however much loyalty he felt for Mark, he was on her side without question. "And I just came to buy coffee. Although," he hesitated, "I do need to talk to you."

"I have a patient I need to check on!" Meredith snapped. She did have a patient, the one now in post-op after the anterior gastrotomy, the one she had left with an intern to sit and torture herself on the gurney. She turned to go.

"Stay, Meredith." He raised his voice a little and she stopped. "I really do need to talk to you."

"About Mark?" She really didn't want to hear it.

Derek sighed. "Yes." He wished he could spare her this. He had put off finding her, roughly calculating the longest interval before hospital gossip started circulating that he could allow her to remain ignorant. He didn't want her to feel compelled to forgive Mark and he didn't want to watch her try to. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Then don't! I'm sure we'll both be happier that way!"

Derek nodded slowly. He thought she was probably right, but that wasn't an option. "Mark is . . ." He inhaled. "He's been admitted to the Psych ward. As a patient."

"Excuse me?" She could hear his words and string together the logical meaning, but she didn't understand him.

"Psych admitted Mark," Derek repeated. "Maybe only overnight . . . a couple of days. I don't know. The psychiatrist thought—"

"What's wrong with him?" she demanded sharply, as her brain caught up with his words. She had stopped crying.

Derek hesitated. It would probably help her if she knew what had happened to Mark, but caught somewhere between the desire not to burden her with unfair guilt and to preserve Mark's privacy, he said, "He had a breakdown."

She stared at him blankly, trying to make believe she didn't care until she noticed that Derek was talking again.

"They'll do a full evaluation and a neurological work-up, look at med interactions, when he's rested."

Meredith looked at him intently for a second and then nodded curtly and averted her eyes. "Well, I hope they can help him," she said.

She could sense him watching her and supposed he was trying to work out her emotions. She almost wanted to say, 'If you manage to work out what I'm feeling, could you let me know?' Because she didn't know how she was still standing; she didn't know how she'd said, 'I hope they can help him' with such detachment. But it was the best she could do if she wanted to save herself.

"Do you want to see him?" Derek asked gently.

Meredith shook her head, but then looked up in a panic. "Did he ask for me?"

"No, but —"

"So there's no reason for me to see him," she broke in with another forced shrug. If she hadn't had a lump in her throat, she might even have succeeded in sounding unconcerned. "Mark and I are over, Derek. He made it very clear that I make everything worse." She took a deep breath. "I have a patient," she said. "I need to go now."

Derek felt helpless. He wondered if he should have stated the obvious that the way Mark had treated her was probably a symptom of his life falling apart and not how he really felt. But that only led back to Mark's privacy and her probable guilt. So he offered her the only thing he could.

"Meredith, if you want to talk —"

"I'm fine, Derek," she cut him off. "I have to work now."

She turned away and walked towards the stairwell. It hurt. It hurt to walk away. It hurt not to care. But each time the pain tried to break through, each time it shot through her and made her want to gasp, she rode it out. She had to. She had no choice. Because to care, to give in to the part of her that wanted to love him again, to believe that he still loved her and needed her, was impossible. She really hoped that Psych could help him, but she couldn't be a part of the help. And as for her? Well, there was that truism that time heals all wounds, right? But she couldn't help feeling that this wound, this wound on top of all the others in her life, from the one person she had absolutely trusted, might never really heal, however hard she tried. Even if she used every ounce of denial she had.

* * *

Title song: _**No Ordinary Morning**_, Chicane

_You could give a million reasons,  
change the world and change the tides  
Could not give me the secrets  
of your heart and of your mind  
In the darkness that surrounds me now  
there is no peace of mind  
Your careless words undo me,  
leave the thought of us behind_


	13. Something is Bound to Give

Chapter 13 – Something is Bound to Give

When Meredith arrived home, the lights were on in the kitchen. She faltered at the front door, fiddling with her keys, not ready to go in and face her roommates. She was tired and riding out the pain was getting more difficult and the thought of answering questions about herself and Mark, even if they were just the minimally concerned kind that could be deflected with 'I'm fine,' made her want to hide somewhere and never come out.

Dropping her keys back into her purse, she walked along the porch and sat down on the swing. It was dark outside, but the lights from the house allowed her to see a little. She pressed her feet against the ground to get the swing going and leaned back and closed her eyes, disregarding the memory of Thatcher, in a rare moment of ordinary father-daughter interaction, fixing the swing's . . .well swing. Another thing she didn't want in her head; like her compulsive thoughts about Mark and how he was and what he was doing. She was losing her grip on avoidance and denial and out here, by herself, on the swing in the dark had always been a good place to not think and not feel.

The swing slowed down a little and she pushed it into action again. She wished she had the energy for alcohol and boys. A little tequila might help, she thought, with the denial and avoidance deficit. But that brought up all the same obstacles of energy and the kitchen and the questions and in the end she just let out a resigned sigh and stayed where she was.

The front door opened unexpectedly, startling her a little, then slammed shut as Alex came into view, muttering something like, "Fucking judgmental bitch!" before he caught sight of Meredith and, startled himself, added "Oh, shit!"

Meredith gave a placatory shrug and did something with her lips that she hoped would pass for a smile. "Sorry for interrupting your flip-out," she said. Her voice sounded exactly like she felt — tired, defeated, sad and clueless and balancing on the edge of a total meltdown.

Alex was holding a bottle of beer and he used it to indicate the seat, asking if he could sit down, and Meredith nodded.

"May I?" she asked, glancing at the bottle. He handed it to her and she drank a couple of mouthfuls of beer, wiped off the bottle and handed it back. "So who's the fucking judgmental bitch?" She tried her best to sound like playful, bantering Meredith. Playing with Alex seemed like a good way to anesthetize a few more minutes of her life.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled and took a swig of the beer. Then he sighed. "Izzie," he said, shaking his head once or twice. "You know how she gets. Running off at the mouth and saying stupid shit."

"You love Izzie." Meredith quirked an eyebrow – a tired and defeated quirk, but a quirk nonetheless. Clearly alcohol and boys still had their place, even if the alcohol was a couple of sips of beer and the boy was your grumpy roommate. "You know you do."

Alex laughed morosely. "Yeah . . . you might not like her so much if you knew what she'd said."

"Try me."

He sighed and twisted around in his seat to look at her. "How's he doing?" he asked, sounding as though he was trying to swallow the words.

Meredith bit her lip. "Mark?" she asked and Alex nodded. She sighed. It had been going so well, but now reality was crashing back.

"Did they let you see him?"

Meredith stared at him. "We broke up," she said. She tried to get the swing going again, but Alex's feet were planted on the ground and his weight stopped her. "I don't want to see him."

He didn't respond — not in words, anyway, but his unspoken disapproval was so overt she could almost feel it burning into her.

"We broke up," she repeated, then frantically tried to recreate the pretense of trivial hanging-out that had shattered with his question. "What did Izzie say?"

"It doesn't matter what she said. She doesn't understand." He paused. "She didn't see him and she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about."

"She was talking about Mark?" Meredith asked cautiously.

"Yeah," he said. He shook his head, brushing off her question, somewhere between angry and embarrassed. "Doesn't matter."

"Well, you never know," she said. Her voice was trembling. This was becoming too much for her fragile and flagging denial to cope with. "She may have been right. One person's judgmental bitchiness is another person's truth, I guess."

"Seriously?" Alex demanded. "Fucking seriously?"

"We. Broke. Up," she said yet again. That was reasonable wasn't it? They broke up! Why couldn't he understand that?

"Mer," he said quietly. "He's Mark Sloan and he's in the psych ward. You have to go see him at least. You guys were . . . " He inhaled. "I get that you broke up, but he's in the fucking psych ward!"

"Please drop it, Alex," she said and squeezed her eyes shut.

Alex leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. The more or less empty beer bottle hung between his hands and he stared at the ground. "You don't do that." He took a rough breath. "You don't leave someone to deal with all that on their own. Whatever a person does to you, you don't just leave them."

"Fucking seriously?" She mimicked his earlier words, tears clouding her vision. "Did it ever occur to you that I might have a reason?" She blinked as a few tears began to leak down her face. "You know what, Alex? This is none of your business." She took a breath and let it out. "But just so we're clear—"

"Sorry," he muttered, half uncomfortable and half indignant. "You're right, it's none of my—"

"Just so we're clear!" she repeated, knowing his apology was only what he thought she wanted to hear. "I have a reason. I have a really freaking good reason. I wouldn't have left him by himself. I wouldn't have left him at all. But he made it impossible to stay and if you knew how we broke up, you would understand." She stared at him, challenging him to say anything else. Then suddenly the air seemed colder and she shivered and wrapped her arms around her body. She didn't know if it was the weather or just her certainty ebbing away a little more. "Anyway," she said almost to herself, "he has Derek. Derek's there for him and he doesn't want me."

A few uncomfortable moments went by until Alex asked, "You want to talk about it?"

"No!" she erupted. The tears now began to fall for real, saturating her eyelashes and making a wet path down her cheeks and nose. "I _can't_ talk about it." She swallowed. "I can't talk about it and if I did, if I talked to you, if I told you," she shook her head, trying to clear it, but it wouldn't clear and the words just spilled out, "you would never forgive him. And I might want to. I might want to forgive him." She paused as she registered the meaning of her words. "If I told you — or Izzie or Cristina or anyone — you wouldn't and then I couldn't either. I . . . " The rest of her words dissolved into a series of choking sobs. "I'm exhausted, Alex. I can't do this. I don't know how to do this. I loved him so much. I loved him and I just can't."

"Sshhh, Mer," he said awkwardly. "It's okay. I shouldn't've . . ." He sighed, then straightened up and leaned towards her. Reaching an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her towards him and she let him hold her while she cried herself out against his chest.

When her intense sobs died down a little, he pushed her gently away from him and looked into her eyes. "I don't know what he did to you and I don't want to, okay? But," he inhaled, "I've done some shitty things. Some seriously shitty things that I'm ashamed of —" He broke off. "Whatever. This isn't about me." He inhaled again. "I've seen him with you. I've seen the way he looks at you. He's changed since he's been with you. I mean, I fucking hated him before and, since you . . . he teaches me. He lets me cut. He brought me coffee yesterday for God's sake!" He smiled apologetically. "I guess it's not only Izzie who runs off at the mouth, huh? All I'm saying is, this morning he told me I should go to New York because he's not all he's 'cracked up to be,' he's smoking, he punched out a nurse —"

"He . . . ?" Meredith shook her head and then covered her face with her hands. A part of her wished he would just stop talking, but the part of her that seemed to think she might want to forgive Mark wanted to hear what he had to say. "Never mind. Go on."

"He punched out some guy outside the hospital and Callie found him out there. He blew off a surgery and he's been sick and weird and he screwed up a procedure." He studied her, then went on. "I don't think whatever happened between you and him was about you. I think it was about him." He shrugged. "Mer, he's a psych patient. Figures, doesn't it?"

He stood up and cleared his throat. He looked towards the house. "I should probably go in," he said, shrugging. "Izzie."

Meredith nodded absently and he turned to go. Then she stopped him, saying quietly, "Thank you, Alex. For . . ." She shrugged: for holding her while she cried; for letting her voice emotions that she didn't even know she felt.

He nodded uncomfortably. "'S fine," he mumbled.

"You should go see him," she said. "I think he'd like that."

Alex snorted. "I think he'd freak," he said, then his voice softened. "He'd like it more if you went, Mer."

He went inside and, with his weight removed, Meredith got the swing going again. The rhythm was still calming, sort of, in a superficial way, but not enough; not enough to stop her thoughts churning and not enough to allow her to bandage the wound with denial again. Because she couldn't avoid the fact that she didn't know quite how to exist in a world where she wasn't in love with Mark, but she didn't know how to go about loving him again.

* * *

"Dr. Sloan is suffering from C-PTSD," Katharine Wyatt said, shifting her weight in the black leather chair and crossing her legs.

There was a pause while Richard Webber scanned the notes she had typed up quickly this morning, between patients, after her first meeting with Mark Sloan. Then he removed his reading glasses and sighed.

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I understand," he said irritably. "What's the 'C?'"

Dr. Wyatt slightly raised one eyebrow, letting herself betray just a little reaction to his attitude. "It's a new classification," she said. "Post DSM-IV. _Complex_ Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"Which means?" he persisted.

"It means he's suffering from the effects of chronic interpersonal trauma," she replied matter-of-factly and as unrevealingly as possible.

She was fairly certain she knew what he was going to do and say next and her prediction was confirmed when he narrowed his eyes petulantly and asked, again, "Which _means_?"

She looked at him steadily. "That's privileged," she said. "You asked me for a diagnosis, I gave you one. "

He eyed her suspiciously. "There's no organic illness?"

"No." She shook her head.

"Underlying psychiatric problems?"

She allowed herself a small sigh and leaned forward slightly in her chair. "I've taken that into consideration," she said. Strictly, they should have done more investigation. But Dr. Sloan was distressed and verbally uncommunicative and everything she'd heard from Dr. Hanlan and observed herself inclined her to believe his account of what had happened to him. It was a calculated risk, but sometimes treating recovered memories of abuse quickly and intensively yielded a result, whereas leaving it too long could entrench the problem. And then there was what he told her with his eyes: that he was lost and frightened and desperately wanting help that he had no idea how to ask for.

"So you want me to tell the board that he has," he raised an eyebrow, "C-PTSD?"

"I don't care what you tell the board," she said. "What I'm telling _you_ is that Dr. Sloan is very unstable and needs immediate help and that I may have a way to help him. You need to let me treat him as I see fit." She paused. "If you didn't want that, why did you ask me for a consult?"

She could have sworn she heard him make a growling sound in his throat in response, but then his attitude suddenly shifted. "Did he say anything about Meredith Grey?" he asked awkwardly.

"He didn't say much of anything at all," Dr. Wyatt said. "Mostly, he sleeps . . . with the help of Lorazepam." The details really weren't Richard Webber's business, but she wanted to get across how serious Dr. Sloan's situation was. Meredith Grey? She thought she remembered some fragment of hospital gossip involving a love triangle between Mark Sloan and Meredith Grey and . . . Derek Shepherd . . . and his wife? So kind of a square more than a triangle, really? Damn, these people led messy lives. She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and scribbled in it. _Meredith Grey? Complicated sex life_? _Symptom?_ She put the notebook away and smiled at Richard Webber. "Who's Meredith Grey?" she said, pretending ignorance and pushing for more information.

He stared at her, apparently on the point of revealing something, but then shook his head. "She's a resident," he said. "Second year. Never mind." He sighed. "I understand you're the best," he said. "I suppose I'll just have to trust that you know what you're doing."

"Well, I guess that's something," she said archly and started to get up from her chair, but he stopped her by clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"It's been suggested to me that it would benefit Dr. Sloan if I revoked the suspension of his surgical privileges." He paused. "You think that would help?"

She shrugged. "I think it would be a nice gesture," she said. "I think it would show you value him as an member of your team and that can only be helpful." Dr. Sloan seemed very isolated: no enquiries; only one, brief visit from Dr. Shepherd, who had seemed relieved when he'd learned his friend was asleep and wasn't allowed visitors at that time. Support from his boss could only be a good thing, especially since most surgeons seemed to live for their work. She wondered if that might be a way to open a dialogue for therapy.

Dr. Webber did the growling thing again, but this time a slightly softer version. "All right, then," he said. "I can do that. The suspension's revoked, but he's on medical leave until you clear him for surgery. In writing."

* * *

Mark dreamed about Meredith.

Somewhere in between the sickening memories that blended into one another and almost never stopped and the blank numbness where he just about succeeded in not thinking, he dreamed about Meredith. Ordinary stuff. Lazy mornings making breakfast, driving to work, holding her while she slept and he breathed in her scent. Ordinary and beautiful and something he would never know again. Every single time he woke up again and realized it wasn't real, he cried.

They had assigned him a new shrink. A woman: older and small and lean and shrewd-looking. She'd tried asking him questions, but had the sensitivity to stop when he couldn't take it. The part of him that was capable of noticing or caring kind of liked her.

A nurse had brought him breakfast and the tray was still there, threatening him with nausea every time he contemplated eating something. There was no coffee, though; something unintelligible about needing a prescription. Who the fuck knew? It was probably just him not understanding and he was too disoriented to form a second question so he had let it go.

Everything hurt. Fucking _everything_. Until he couldn't tell whether the pain in his stomach was physical or from loneliness; whether his head ached from caffeine withdrawal, or the sedative, or exhaustion or from the thoughts that haunted him. He kept coughing and his lungs and throat hurt. And he was so fucking tired and he just wanted it all to stop.

He scrunched up in the bed and pulled the blankets over his head. It was strange that this almost reflexive habit was still something he did for comfort, now that he knew where it came from. He'd done it as a little kid, when he heard his mother's footsteps approach his bedroom. Even then, he'd known it was dumb, but he couldn't help it. There was this momentary hope that she wouldn't see him and for that moment, he had felt safe. Of course, it had never worked, but for some reason, despite this, it helped a little. It still did.

* * *

"Dr. Sloan."

Mark opened his puffy, burning eyes and rolled slowly over onto his side in the direction of the voice. The shrink was back, settling herself on the couch that ran along the side wall of his room.

He swallowed deliberately, not sure that his voice would work, then replied, "Dr., uh . . .Wyman?" He didn't think that was the right name, but that was the best he could come up with.

"Wyatt," she corrected gently.

"Sorry," Mark mumbled, pushing himself up into sitting position. "I . . . you told me that. I'm . . . " He trailed off. He felt like a child trying to get approval and he hated the feeling. He wished he could have five minutes where he felt like himself.

"It's all right," she reassured him. "You have bigger things to cope with than remembering the last names of a succession of shrinks."

Mark smiled slightly. He was almost surprised that he remembered how —although he'd caught himself smiling when he first woke up from the dreams about Meredith. But Dr. Wyatt's laid-back kindness seemed to have a positive effect on him.

"I spoke with Dr. Webber," she said, "and —"

"He's going to fire me, right?" he broke in, his smile gone and his voice quiet and strained. Really, it was academic: he couldn't perform a procedure right now if his life depended on it. But he didn't know who he was and the best definition he had to cling onto was 'surgeon.' Without that, he thought his mind might just fragment. Maybe that was what he deserved, but that didn't stop his survival instinct from wanting something better.

"No," she said. "Not at all. He's on board with my recommendations and," she paused, " he asked me to let you know that your OR privileges are no longer suspended. "But you're on compulsory medical leave until I clear you for surgery."

Mark ran his hand over his face, as his throat constricted and his eyes prickled with tears.

"Are you all right?" Dr. Wyatt asked.

"Yeah," he said and inhaled. "I thought . . . " He'd thought his last grasp on the reality he recognized was about to be taken away. Now, even if he had nothing else, he knew he still had his job and the relief was overwhelming.

But then his mood shifted again and the momentary feeling of reassurance gave way to grief.

"I hurt someone. This shit got in the way and I . . ." He paused, knowing that he was going to start crying again and wishing that he wouldn't. "I hurt everyone, even . . . _especially_ the people I care about." He swallowed. "He should fire me. I'm not a surgeon anymore." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hating the way his mind flipped from one state to another without his control. He wished he could focus.

"Dr. Sloan," she began carefully. He didn't look up; just stared down at the blankets covering him. "Something horrific happened to you." She paused. "Your mother, the person you should have been able to trust most in the world, betrayed that trust and sexually abused you."

Mark lifted his head slightly and looked at her cautiously.

"That kind of trauma can derail a person's whole life," she continued. "And I know it feels that way right now. But you . . . you got through it and you became a surgeon —"

"I'm a wreck," he broke in, his voice suddenly rough. "Pathologically self-loathing and self-destructive. That's what the last shrink said." He laughed bitterly. "She left out the part where I take other people down with me. Guess that runs in the family, huh?"

"You're a surgeon," she insisted. "One of the best in your field, I understand. You achieved that despite what happened to you, and that shows enormous determination and strength, and we can use that in our work together."

"Our work together?" He thought he might have wanted to sound sardonic; it just came out sounding scared. She scared him. Not like the other staff; not like the rest of his life right now. There was something about her that made him trust her — the lack of bullshit, maybe; that she knew when to back off, but still got her point across — and he didn't want her to give up on him. He didn't want to give her the chance to give up on him, so he was trying to push her away.

She gave a small shrug. "I'd like to help you."

"Well, good luck with that," Mark said, defenses on autopilot, then groaned as he heard the fresh barricade of words come out of his mouth. He dragged his hands through his hair and took a deep breath, trying to focus, trying to communicate honestly. "Could I get a cup of coffee?" he asked uncertainly. It was his way of saying he'd like her to help him; he didn't have a better way to put it right now.

"Coffee?" Dr. Wyatt asked and raised an eyebrow.

"The nurse said something about coffee being on prescription. I figured I misunderstood her and I didn't . . . I don't think she likes me, so I . . ."

"You didn't misunderstand. Caffeine is strictly supervised on this floor." She paused. "I can write you a prescription." She tilted her head slightly and studied him. "Is the request for coffee code for being willing to try therapy with me?"

Mark looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "I just want a cup of coffee," he said dryly, shrugging. But then he glanced down and admitted, "Yeah, I guess. What choice do I have? I have to get this out of my head. I have to deal with it, even if . . ." Even if he had lost Meredith. He swallowed. "Can we maybe stop for a while?" he asked quietly. "I can't talk about this right now."

"I understand," she said, standing up. "I have other patients to see and you have," she shrugged, "a lot to process. We can talk tomorrow. I'll have your coffee sent in," she said, "and I'm authorizing sedation, at a reduced dose. If you can manage without, I would prefer that. But if you need it, ask a nurse."

He was losing concentration again, as his mind tried to protect itself from the renewed flood of pain and confusion and self-hatred that came with thinking about Meredith. But, with effort, he stayed just focused enough to say, "Thank you."

Dr. Wyatt walked towards the door, then turned back and looked into his eyes. "This will get better," she said. "I don't know how quickly. But we can work through this and it will get better."

This time Mark didn't respond; somewhere inside his head, though, he hoped to God she was right.

* * *

_Title Song: __**Hope for the Hopeless**_, A Fine Frenzy

_Stitch in your knitted brow  
And you don't know how  
You're gonna get it out  
Crushed under heavy chest  
Trying to catch your breath  
But it always beats you by a step, all right now_

_Making the best of it  
Playing the hand you get  
You're not alone in this_

_There's hope for the hopeless_


	14. Love Will Always Love You

Chapter 14 – When No One Is Around Love Will Always Love You

"I never cried as a kid."

Mark was sitting on Dr. Wyatt's couch. Twenty-five minutes had passed and these were the first words he'd said other than mumbling, "Hey," when he'd first arrived and "Thanks," when she offered him a seat. Most of that time had been spent trying to suppress the only too familiar prickle of tears behind his eyes.

"Now I can't fucking stop," he added quietly, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply in a futile effort to prove himself wrong this time.

Dr. Wyatt reached forward and handed him a box of tissues. He took one and scrubbed it over his eyes and blew his nose, then caught her eye, guardedly grateful. It was a simple, well-timed act. He knew it was just a routine part of therapy; that she must get through truckloads of tissues and handing the box over was just a professional reflex. But she had noticed, without commenting or asking for an explanation (he assumed that would come later, but for now, she'd let it go and somehow that mattered) and she had been kind at the right time and that mattered too.

"I never let myself cry," Mark said. "I never wanted to let her see me cry."

After that he sat in silence, lost in a kind of absence of thought that completely filled his mind, not noticing time passing, until Dr. Wyatt said, "That's it for today."

That was the first session. Then he went back to his room and slept.

* * *

"When I first got diagnosed with cancer, I guess I wasn't really planning on staying alive. Does that count?"

Dr. Wyatt had asked if he ever had thoughts about suicide. She'd raised the subject of his leaving the psych ward, wanting to set a goal, and he had panicked, blurting out stuff he could barely even remember now, less than five minutes later, about his house and the lake and how he didn't know who he was and couldn't cope.

"You weren't planning on staying alive?" she asked carefully.

Mark sighed. "It was . . . _is_ . . . I don't know . . . I'm supposed to be in remission but I only found out a few days ago and it's only been a year, so who the fuck knows?" He sighed again and made a decision to be optimistic about this one relatively simple thing in his life. "It _was_ advanced duodenal cancer. It doesn't have a great remission rate. I was in pain. My best friend hated me and the woman I loved had given up on me and run away to L.A. and I was stuck in Seattle and I thought," until a few days ago, the words had lost their relevance; now they were back to haunt him, "death would be the easy way out."

She paused. "Do you feel that way now?"

Mark looked into her eyes. "Right now?" he asked. "Honestly?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, pretty much," he admitted. "But it's not . . . I'm not looking to find the nearest scalpel and off myself. You don't have to worry." He paused, then said very quietly, "If I was going to do that, I already would have. Trust me." He inhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "I thought about it . . . when the memories first came back." Between leaving Callie and Derek finding him. "But I didn't and I won't. Accumulating random acts of self-destruction is more my style." He attempted a kind of smile. "I, uh . . . for a while, it was different, though." Because of Meredith. "I had someone and she made it seem worth fighting; worth living." He gave one soft, bitter laugh. "But that's done. I screwed it up, of course. So now," he shrugged, "I have surgery and not letting my mother win and that's it."

"Is that enough?" she asked. "To want to live?"

"No," Mark said, watching as Dr. Wyatt carefully controlled her reaction. She was good, he had to give her that. She had gotten him to trust her enough to talk honestly without appearing to do anything. His shrink in New York had a tendency to show off her skills, while he deflected her questions, covered up his feelings and ached inside; this one was more like him at his best, making intricate cuts and doing sutures you couldn't see. "But living and staying alive are two different things. It's enough to want to stay alive."

That was the second session. Somehow, he got through it without crying. He didn't know whether that was progress, or because he was numb, or because there weren't enough tears to express what he was feeling right now.

* * *

"Excuse me," Meredith said tentatively. She had finally made it up to the fifth floor and she was shaking and trying to hide it.

The resident sitting behind the counter looked up and slid back the unwelcoming protective Perspex. "Yes?" he said, then his face fell. "Dr. Grey," he said wearily.

She smiled, trying to seem appeasing and un-surgeon-like, despite the fact she was wearing her scrubs and lab coat. "I'm not . . . I'm not here as myself," she said, earning a raised eyebrow. "I'm here to see Dr. . . . Mark Sloan. Is he allowed visitors?"

The resident consulted a list. "I'll have to check with his doctor," he said, picking up the telephone receiver. He indicated the waiting area. "Take a seat over there and I'll let you know."

"Thank you," Meredith said, then half turned away, before asking, "Uhm, is there anywhere I can get coffee?"

"Not allowed," he said curtly. He leaned forwards and pointed irritably to a notice stuck underneath the window. _No sharp objects. No cell phones. No caffeine._

"Of course. I get it," Meredith said, flinching inside at the stark inhospitality of the place. As a doctor, she knew all these rules were for good reasons; as a visitor, they brought home the awful reality of Mark's situation.

"You have a cell phone?" he asked accusingly. A little empathy might have been nice, but she guessed he was only doing his job. She figured it was the surgeon thing, because he seriously couldn't be this unpleasant to regular visitors. "If you have one, you'll have to leave it with me."

"No." Meredith shook her head rapidly. "No cell phone. Just my pager." She tried the appeasing smile again. "No scalpels either. Look!" She spread her hands open and let out an almost frantic nervous laugh.

The psych resident merely glared, indicated the waiting area again and went on with his call, while Meredith wandered away towards the seats. Looking around, trying to occupy her mind, she noticed that there was something slightly shabbier, slightly more depressing about the psych waiting area. On the surgical floor, everything was newer, plusher and somehow better lit. Again, it hurt her a little to think of Mark being here. She wondered if he was lonely; whether Derek or Callie or anyone else - the Chief, maybe - had been to see him. Or whether, literally, as Alex had said, he'd been left alone to deal with it all by himself.

A chill crept over her shoulders and spine and the shaking got a little bit worse, so she sat down on the edge of the nearest seat and squeezed her hands between her knees, closing her eyes to try to find some composure.

"Dr. Grey?"

Meredith looked up to see an older woman, wiry, with sharp, intelligent eyes, scrutinizing her. She felt the nervous smile return as she jumped up from her seat too quickly, the tremor in her legs causing her to lose her balance very slightly

"Yes. That's me. I'm Dr. Grey . . . Meredith Grey. Yes."

"Meredith?" the woman asked curiously, putting her head on one side and, when Meredith nodded she nodded back, as though she had found the answer to some kind of puzzle. "I'm Dr. Wyatt, Dr. Sloan's psychiatrist. I understand you'd like to see him."

Meredith felt her pulse rate increase and registered a sudden desire to pee. She felt as though she were being assessed – quite probably as insane and unfit and she half-expected to be ordered off the psych floor there and then. "Yes," she said, swallowing to lubricate her throat.

"What's your relationship with Dr. Sloan?"

Meredith's eyes briefly met Dr. Wyatt's. A routine question, but another assessment. She wondered if Mark had talked about her and, if so, what he had said.

"I work with him," she began, tentative again, but then the rest rushed out in a blur of evasive, semi-contradictory words. "I'm a surgical resident. And we. . . . we used to date . . . at one time. We're friends, kind of."

Dr. Wyatt very slightly raised one eyebrow, but the expression cleared before Meredith had time to think about what it might mean. She narrowed her eyes, weighing something up. "Okay," she said finally. "But he's asleep and I'd rather you didn't wake him. Can you wait?"

Meredith nodded. She could wait. She still wasn't entirely sure she was going to get further than the waiting area anyway.

"I'll have the resident on duty let you know when you can go in." Dr. Wyatt went on. "Dr. Sloan's in room 5423. It's good that someone's visiting him." She paused, then smiled kindly. "He's doing okay. It's not easy for him, but he's making progress. It's good that you're here."

"What's wrong with him?" Meredith asked, encouraged by the psychiatrist's words.

Dr. Wyatt tilted her head to one side. "I can't tell you that," she said, "and . . . I'd prefer if it you didn't ask him when you see him. He'll tell you if he wants you to know."

"I understand," Meredith said. She didn't really – well, again, the doctor part of her did; the scared out of her mind visitor part just felt even more anxious and exposed. She sank back down on the seat, resuming the same posture, hands jammed between tight knees, as Dr. Wyatt walked away.

Ten minutes later, the urge to pee became too great to ignore and, after a brief conversation with the surly resident, Meredith found her way to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what exactly she was doing here. It would be so easy to walk away – to go back down in the elevator and bury herself in the safety of being a surgeon. When she worked she almost forgot; she'd had a lot of practice with almost forgetting and she figured, in the end, the way her heart ached and the way she hated him and longed for him at the same time would fade away to the subliminal place where she stored all the other half-remembered pain.

She splashed her face with cold water and breathed in. Although her pulse was racing now, she could breathe. She could breathe without him. That was all that was necessary – to keep breathing, act like she was fine and, in the end, it would get better. She was going back down in the elevator; she was going to work; she was going to almost forget.

But, exiting the bathroom, a secure hallway to her left caught her eye, falling away behind a heavy door, protected by card entry and with the words _Psych. Dept. Staff Only_ in dark block letters against the reinforced glass window. Her stomach dropped – the room numbers were 5412 – 5420 and Mark quite clearly didn't belong in that hallway but, once again, the stark encounter with his reality shocked her. She turned away quickly, then saw another hallway, unsecured, the first door displaying the number 5421.

Maybe if she just got a look at him, that would be enough? She could check on him, she would know that he was okay and then she could move on. Looking around for staff, she walked more decisively than she felt to room 5423 and pushed the door open.

He was sleeping, curled on his side on top of the bed, facing into the room. Meredith stood in the doorway, hesitating, looking over her shoulder. This was what she wanted, right? To see him and go? So she should go now; she should go . . . but something drew her inside the room.

She walked in slowly and, after hovering for a few seconds, sat down on the couch, pressed at the end furthest away from Mark and nearest the door, hands once again squeezed between tight knees.

Lost in sleep, Mark breathed slowly in and out and, by some kind of emotional osmosis, his calmness started to calm her and she relaxed, freeing her hands and leaning against the arm of the couch. She wondered if he was cold. She had dreaded seeing him a hospital gown – she hated seeing him broken; and there were too many memories of a year ago when she'd sat with him and held his hand and they had begun to fall in love. But seeing him out of bed and fully dressed – jeans, a black sweater, socks – was unexpected. She wondered if that was part of the progress Dr. Wyatt had talked about – it had to be some kind of good sign. But his skin was pale and somehow drier than she remembered it, and his hair seemed grayer. Drinking and sickness and stupidly long hours had left him looking creased and rumpled in the last couple of days before they broke up. But now that his beard was overgrown by three more days, the unkemptness of the usually immaculately trimmed facial hair tore at her heart a little. He had lost weight – he lost weight quickly if he didn't eat. Meredith wasn't a nurturer – but any abilities she had for it, Mark brought out. Perhaps it was falling in love with him when he had cancer; perhaps it was the off-hand, teasing way he nurtured her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. She had known it was a mistake to come up here: she couldn't be in the same room with him and not care about him. She couldn't just check on him and go.

He stirred, giving a groan as he shifted position slightly and she held her breath, waiting for him to wake up. She didn't know what she would do if he woke up. Without words, without the need to acknowledge their history, here with him without his knowing it, it was okay. She could balance on the edge of love and pain and more or less bear it and it was . . . okay.

She yawned, unintentionally settling back on the couch. He still made her feel safe. He had hurt her – physically and with his awful words – and let her leave his house and his life with a kind of cruel casualness that she couldn't remember without reliving the pain. But in this unspoken world they were sharing, she couldn't help herself – he made her feel safe, exactly as he always had, and she let herself give in to it.

There was a blue pillow on the couch and she picked it up and cradled it, burying her chin in the soft, puffed-up fabric. It wasn't a bad room. More or less like a surgical patient room and not as shabby as the waiting area. Perhaps they had given him a special one – who knew? Her thoughts were wandering now – avoiding the realizations that had just exploded on her - and her eyes began to close. That was the safe thing again. She loved sleeping next to him, in the same bed, in a chair in the same room; she was exhausted; and even though she fought against sleeping, knowing she couldn't, her instincts won and her eyes closed.

* * *

When Mark opened his eyes and saw Meredith asleep on his couch, he thought he was dreaming. This wasn't something he dreamed about; her, here, in this room. All his dreams of her were from the past; he had killed any hope of a present or future with her and even his subconscious seemed to have gotten that message. She moaned – a small sound that seemed almost contented and slightly shifted the position of her head against her arm – and when Mark's ears took in the sound, physically audible and carried on the airwaves between them, he knew this was really happening.

She was sitting, her neck bent awkwardly, as though she had fallen asleep unintentionally. He found himself smiling. That was okay, right? She wouldn't know; she wouldn't ever have to know that she had made him happy for the first time in days just by being in his room, sleeping, on his couch, as though their lives were normal. It felt wrong, almost dirty, as though his happiness would harm her. But she was asleep and she wouldn't know.

There was a noise in the doorway and Mark propped himself up just in time to intercept one of the residents. "No," he mouthed and shook his head and, after a brief, questioning look, the resident accepted it and left Meredith alone. She shifted again, twisting her neck, and Mark longed to pick her up and rearrange her; save her from the aches and stiffness that sleeping that way would bring. But he had lost the right to care for her that way, so he contented himself with watching her breathe and matching his breath to hers. He breathed easier with her. He had talked to her a lot about love, and he had meant it; but love was easy to mistake in his life and it had been a learning process. Now though he knew without any doubt that this, with her, had been the real thing.

Meredith gave a little snore and jerked her head. Mark froze, wanting her to stay asleep just a little longer so that this didn't have to end. But her eyelids flickered open and Mark felt his stomach clench with the beginning of loss. Her eyes widened and looked directly into his. She didn't know where she was; all she saw was him and, for one second, that was okay; that was good. Her lips turned up into a slight smile and he couldn't help responding. The affectionate greeting didn't make it past his lips, but in his head he said, _Hey_.

Then he watched her expression change from softness to alarm as she came back to the unforgiving present. She sat up, no longer quite looking at him, pushing aside the pillow she had been holding, and pressed her knees together.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have . . . " She looked down at her lap as she ran out of words. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah." Mark pushed himself into a sitting position. "I guess. Thank you." Colliding with their painful reality hurt, but he owed it to her not to show that.

"That's good," she said quickly. She smoothed down her scrubs nervously, then started picking at a loose thread on the arm of the couch.

"You're working today," Mark commented, wondering where he'd found the presence of mind for this banality.

She nodded. "You're . . . I thought you'd be wearing a gown. I didn't expect . . . "

"I'm supposed to get out of here in a couple of days," Mark said. "My shrink seems to think wearing real clothes will help with that." And maybe they would if they hadn't been the ones, retrieved from his locker, he'd put on the morning after he raped Meredith. He closed his eyes. That was the very first time he'd allowed himself to use the word – up until now, he had found one euphemism after another. Confronting himself, now, with her sitting opposite him, with the verbalized truth of what he had done was almost too much to deal with.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Mark opened his eyes again. "Yeah, Meredith. Yeah." He couldn't help his voice taking on an inappropriate caress. He loved her; he was bad for her, but he loved her and he couldn't help that showing through.

"You don't want to leave?"

He shook his head. "It's complicated," he said. It was safe here – he hated that he felt that way, but this room, this ward, the staff, the therapy, the sedatives, the IV if he didn't eat or drink – it was safe. Going back outside scared the shit out of him. He sighed. "Meredith. You don't have to be here. It's nice that you came, but —"

"You don't get to decide that," she broke in, her voice suddenly strong.

Mark nodded. "Okay." He crossed his arms over his diaphragm and folded into himself, bowing his head. She was right; he didn't get to decide.

"Alex," Meredith said. "Alex said I should . . . he wanted me to see you."

From somewhere inside his pain and shame, Mark could feel some lost part of himself narrowing its eyes and uttering a sardonic, "Karev said . . . ?" But, really, he wasn't that guy anymore. Instead, he just hunched slightly further into himself. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Meredith didn't reply, but her breathing quickened.

"I know it's not worth anything. But you should know that I'm sorry." It was inadequate, but it was all he had to give her. All except one thing: because he knew now that he had to let her go.

Several minutes passed in silence, then Meredith said, "I might want . . ." She swallowed. "Do you want me to forgive you?"

Mark forced himself to look up and into her eyes. "No," he said softly.

"No?" she asked.

"What I did . . . that isn't forgivable." He made himself breath. "I can't forgive myself and I can't let you forgive me."

"You're shutting me out?" she demanded. Her voice was overlaid with dullness, but it was an accusation and full of pain. "Again? I give you chances and I offer to forgive you and you shut me out. I don't . . . I just . . . sometimes . . . " She took a deep breath. "You're here. You're a psych patient. I've known that for three days and I left you here, by yourself and I don't know how I did that." She shook her head slightly. "I'm becoming someone I don't know. I've run away from myself so much that I can't talk to Cristina, because she knows who I am and that terrifies me. And you . . . I don't know how to be in this world and not care about you. So I have to forgive you; I have to forgive you and you have to let me. Except . . . I don't know how to. I don't know how to forgive what you did and," she looked at him desperately, "what you _said_."

Then she cried, almost motionless on the edge of the couch, almost without sound except for her ragged breaths. "Why?" she asked.

"Mer, don't," Mark said, using her nickname without thinking. She didn't respond; she just fought to stop crying.

Mark hesitated for a moment, then he stood up, picked up the box of tissues by the bed and walked towards her. If he had given it any thought, he would probably have stayed where he was. But he didn't know how not to care about her either and, even though he had to let her go, he couldn't do it, this time, anything less than gently.

"Mer," he said uncertainly. She still didn't respond. "Mer, can I . . . ?" He wanted to touch her, but he didn't know how she would take that and he didn't want to frighten her or make her angry. Instead, he knelt down in front of her and pushed the tissues towards her.

"Did I do this to you?" she asked. "The almost cheating . . . the bad sex . . . talking about stuff you hate? Did I do this?"

"No, Meredith. No. God, if either of us did this, it was me." He sighed: the _If either of us did this_ – that wasn't fair on her. He wasn't going to tell her the details, so that wasn't fair. "It was me," he repeated without the qualification that only helped him.

"It _wasn't_ just about sex," she said. "I loved you."

"I know." He nodded. "I know that." His heart was breaking for her. "Here," he pulled out a tissue and handed it to her, setting the box down. "I'm not worth this, Mer. You've got to get that. I'm not worth this pain." He sighed. "Something happened to me. Something I'd forgotten about. That's the reason I'm here and that's the reason . . ." it killed him to say this, but it had to be done, "I'm never going to be able to love you how you deserve to be loved."

"Your family?" Meredith asked cautiously.

"Yeah," Mark sighed. "My family." He paused. "I never had any business loving you. You can't forgive me because this . . . you and me . . . it's never going to work out. We've gone too far now and we're . . ." He couldn't quite bring himself to finish.

Meredith looked at him and he watched her eyes transition from pain, to argument to a kind of resigned acceptance. "We're over," she said steadily and used the tissue to wipe her eyes and face.

Mark nodded, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

Neither of them moved until suddenly, in a gesture she retracted almost before it began, Meredith ran her fingers through his hair. Then she stood up abruptly, pushing him away from her and left without another word.

* * *

The third session was brutal.

"She said she wanted a baby, she just didn't want one with me." Something else he hadn't cried about, because it was tacitly agreed between him and Addison that he had no feelings, not even when his heart had just been crushed. "How about that, huh? I'm so bad I can't even be a sperm donor." He shook his head. "Tragic thing is, she was probably right."

"Right about what?" Dr. Wyatt asked.

"Me," he replied quietly. "She thought I was only good for sex; she thought I'd make a terrible father." He inhaled. "Well, my father was a fucking bastard and I pretty much became him – I work and I fuck and I screw people over. The older I get, I even look like him. And then," he looked into Dr. Wyatt's eyes and swallowed, "my own mother thought I was only good for sex, so . . . " He trailed off and shrugged. "Who the hell would want a baby with my DNA?"

Dr. Wyatt studied him. "Dr. Sloan, your mother's actions weren't caused by any flaw in you," she said quietly. "But our pasts can cause us to act in ways that are detrimental to us; even unconsciously recreate trauma. Do you think you did that with Addison?"

"I loved her," he said. "I wanted a family with her."

"But she was your best friend's wife," she persisted.

"They weren't working," Mark said. "I loved her. I just wanted a chance."

"A chance she couldn't give you, in a situation that was tied up with your surrogate family." She leaned forward. "You take it to mean something about your worth as a human being. But all it shows is that you sought out an impossible situation where you could recreate the pain of your childhood."

"I thought you were supposed to be on my side," Mark muttered. "What's coming next, huh? That when that failed, I moved on to Meredith for the same reasons?"

"You tell me," she said, then added, "I met Meredith yesterday."

"You met her?" he asked, momentarily captivated by the idea that Dr. Wyatt had met her and he could talk about her and be understood and, when the doctor nodded, said, "She's beautiful, isn't she?" He had been thinking about her all night. Then, brought back to reality, he let out a grunt of bitter laughter. "Anyway I'm pretty sure you've heard that story. Fits your theory kind of neatly, doesn't it?"

Dr. Wyatt shrugged slightly. "I hear things. I try to avoid the details, though. Gossip rarely reveals anything worth knowing. Tell me about her."

"What do you want to know?" Mark asked. "That she's another woman I stole from Derek Shepherd? Another woman I hurt? That everything I do is toxic and that I dragged her into the shit with me?" He shook his head. "'Cause I get that that's how it seems – I get that. Hell, that's how it _is_. But how it feels . . . is that I love her." He inhaled. "I love her. I didn't seek her out; I didn't try to screw it up; I didn't want any of that. Maybe you're right about Addison – it kind of makes sense. But with her . . . with Meredith . . . I just love her."

* * *

_Title song_: _**Say**_ by Cat Power

_Learn to say the same thing  
Let us hold fast to saying the same thing  
I hope all is well with you  
I wish the best for you  
When no one is around love will always love you_


	15. Whatever Pain May Come

A/N: I am truly sorry for the time it took to produce this update. Thank you so much for the reviews for the last chapter and the favorites and alerts. I really appreciate the feedback.

NB: There is a line at the end of this chapter which reads: '(Mark had broken off and drawn a line through these words).' This is only there to get around the fact that this document editor doesn't support strikethrough. The phrase that precedes it is supposed to appear actually crossed out (and does on the sites where this is cross-posted!) and if you imagine it that way it works much better than my work-around!

* * *

Chapter 15 – Whatever Pain May Come

"_Sometimes patients find it helpful to look at photographs of themselves as children," Dr. Wyatt said._

Mark looked sideways at Derek, trying to assess his mood before he asked, "You have any pictures of me . . . us when we were little kids?"

They were sitting on Mark's deck, drinking coffee and not really talking while Mark tried his damndest not to think. About anything. Especially not about Meredith and the traces of her and their life together that were all over the house. He would've killed for a cigarette; or a bottle of scotch; or 4 mg of Lorazepam; or just to curl up on the floor of the deck; or any number of things on a sliding scale of regression that he couldn't give in to. Clearly Derek only partly wanted to be here – and that only out of loyalty. And, honestly, who the hell could blame him? But it made Mark feel abjectly awkward and lonely and didn't help with the whole not-thinking plan. So to avoid thinking about worse, more painful subjects, he thought about therapy – the most positive thing in his life right now – and Dr. Wyatt's suggestion from earlier that day ended up coming out as a question.

There was a long pause as Derek, gazing out at the lake over the rim of his coffee cup, considered his answer. He _had_ at one time had a picture of himself and Mark, taken when they were around seven or eight, he thought. He'd torn it up the night he left New York, along with the little black and white photograph of Addison his mom had taken at their wedding. Until that day, he'd carried them both around in his wallet for years. But that wasn't exactly the answer you could give your supposed best friend on his first day out of the psych ward. He shook his head. "No," he said, then added, "Why?" not sure if this was a question he really wanted an answer to or whether he just wanted to give the impression of conversation without straying into areas that were too volatile and too hard for either of them to deal with.

"It's nothing," Mark said and closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and sighing slightly. "Just something my shrink said."

"_How'd you think people would react . . . if they knew?"_

"_You tell me," Dr. Wyatt said._

"_I don't know." Mark shook his head. But she sat patiently waiting for his answer and eventually he said, "I think, the way most people see me, they'd think it was textbook. Psych 101. Abused kid grows up to be a sex addict. They'd pity me, maybe." He shrugged and added softly, "Maybe they'd think I deserved it."_

_For the first time since he'd met her, Dr. Wyatt allowed her face to show an emotion that she didn't immediately stifle. For a few seconds she seemed genuinely shocked. "Let's assume," she said slowly, "that we're talking about someone else." She paused, her eyes scanning him. "Can you imagine anyone who didn't have their own serious pathology thinking a child deserved to be sexually abused?"_

"_No," Mark said. "But we're not talking about someone else. We're talking about me. The whore. The guy who screws the nurses and betrays his best friend just to get laid . . . excuse me, 'to recreate his childhood trauma.'" Her shocked expression returned and he shrugged again. "Hey, you asked __**me**__ to tell __**you**__. I was hoping I'd get your version." He raised an eyebrow, mimicking cynicism, amusement even, but hurting desperately inside, until he forced himself to say what he really meant. "You have a way of casting me in a better light than my own thoughts. I kind of need that if I'm going to get out of here today without losing it."_

_Dr. Wyatt's eyes briefly dropped to the notebook on her lap, then they locked with his again. "I think people would feel compassion for you," she said. Her voice was quiet, firm and deadly serious. "And, if you let them, I think they would want to help you."_

_For a moment, her words almost sank in, almost gave him a feeling of possibility. But then the automatic thoughts started back up and he couldn't stop the defensive bullshit coming out of his mouth._

"_You want to know how many women I've fucked?" he challenged, as though inviting her to ask for details. "I mean, I can't tell you the exact number, but at a rough estimate __—__"_

"_It doesn't matter," she broke in. Mark had never known her to interrupt before. "It doesn't matter how many women you slept with, Dr. Sloan. Maybe you have a problem with sexual addiction. And we can deal with that as we progress. But right now, that doesn't matter either." Her eyes never left his and, although he wanted to, he couldn't make himself look away from her. "What matters here, in this room, between us, is what was done to __**you**__. And we can sit here and you can tell me how despicable you think you are, but all you're really telling me is how much you hurt. And you should – you have the right." She leaned forward in her chair. "You were a little boy and your mother sexually abused you. Whatever you feel when you think about that happening to another child – it's exactly the same when it's applied to you; and that's what people would feel compassion for."_

_Mark swallowed. "I can see her," he said. "I can see her and I can feel his . . . my, I guess . . . feelings. But I've done so much harm in my life since then. And all I can think is that I . . . not him, not who I was, not that kid . . . but me. I deserve it." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then gave a tired smile. "Did that make as little sense to you as it did to me?"_

_She smiled distractedly and almost imperceptibly shook her head, as if she didn't consider the question worth answering but knew he needed a response. "Sometimes patients find it helpful to look at photographs of themselves as children," she said._

"_You're kidding me!" Mark almost laughed. "There are people who've been through this who __**have **__pictures of themselves as kids?"_

"_Abuse affects different people in different ways," she said. "Some patients' adult lives are still interwoven with their abusers."_

"_I don't . . . I might have . . ." He thought he might have a old football picture; maybe one or two taken with girls he'd ('gone on dates with' would be a euphemism) screwed more than three times; but nothing of him when he was a little kid. "I don't have any." But there was some kind of memory of pictures being taken; something that he couldn't quite see and he tried to push it away and grasp onto it at the same time until he realized he was holding his breath and on the verge of shaking again._

"You should probably eat something," Derek's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Huh?" Mark opened his eyes and stared blearily at Derek, needing a moment to reorient himself.

"You've lost weight again. You should eat something." Derek stood up, patiently impatient and obviously uncomfortable. "Why don't I order something in? Do you have a list of places you--?"

"Derek, stop. Okay?" Mark leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and briefly rested his head in his hands, before scrubbing his hands over his face. He got it, but the longer Derek didn't say whatever it was he needed to, the harder this became. Even if Derek yelled or did that cold, critical thing he was so good at – and, honestly, he wasn't sure he could deal with that right now, but even that had to be better than this strained tolerance. "I'm not under any illusions about how you feel about me. You don't have to do this if it's too hard for you." He sighed and looked up, trying to meet Derek's eyes, but Derek managed to avoid his gaze. "I just . . . I just didn't want to be alone here the first night. But that doesn't mean," he shrugged. They were skirting around everything so much that there were hardly any words he could use, "It doesn't mean I'm under any illusions. And it's okay if you . . . whatever you want is okay."

Derek sat down on again on the edge of the nearest seat. "We both know what the problem is," he said in a low voice. "I told you how I feel about that and nothing has changed." It hadn't. He was trying, but under the surface of his concern for Mark, his anger about Meredith was still as intense as ever. How could it not be? "But . . ." He paused and made himself look into Mark's eyes. "I've given this a lot of thought. I want to be here for you."

Mark bowed his head. "You don't have to be," he repeated softly, adding, "Maybe I shouldn't have even asked you."

It felt as though minutes elapsed before Derek said, "No. You _should_. We're . . ." Over the past week, he had reminded himself over and over what he'd told Richard: Mark wasn't his friend any longer, but he _was_ his family. And it made sense to him; allowed him, more or less, to function in this situation. But he couldn't bring up this distinction now. Just like the destroyed photograph, it was too harsh. "We're friends. We've been friends too long for me to leave you to deal with this alone. I was your friend when all this was happening to you. And I want to be here for you now." He smiled, sort of, then tried to change the subject. "Now how about something to eat?"

"How about a _drink_?" Mark muttered. He stood up. "Wait there."

"Everything all right?"

Mark raised a finger, repeating, "Wait there," as he slid open the French doors and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of beer, knocked the tops off against the granite counter and went back out on the deck. Handing one to Derek, he said, "We need this, right? _I _need this, anyway, and I'm pretty sure you could use one." He sat back down, took a long, cold gulp from the bottle, let his head fall back and exhaled loudly. "God, do I need this!"

Derek took a sip of his beer. "Should you be drinking?"

"Screw it!" Mark gave a half-grin and shrugged. "It's one beer. The worst that can happen is that I puke and it's not like that'll be anything new." He would probably regret this when he was heaving into the toilet later, but – well, yeah, screw it - he could worry about that if and when it happened. He raised his bottle to Derek in a kind of toast. "Trust me. I'm a doctor."

Derek took another slow sip of beer, but didn't offer any kind of reply

His lack of response made Mark feel suddenly hopelessly exposed and ashamed of his playfulness. This was never going to be right; he could never make it right and it was pointless trying. "I'm sorry," he said very quietly. "I'm a shitty friend."

Turning his head to look at Mark, Derek weighed up his options. He didn't want to upset Mark, but he needed to be honest; and he was experiencing something like a pang of guilt that he had just brushed off Mark's attempt at some kind of normality between them. "Well . . ." He quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not going to argue with that."

When Mark glanced up cautiously, he smiled, then shrugged and raised his own bottle, returning Mark's toast. For a moment, the tension broke and they both laughed. It felt really good.

* * *

Unfortunately, he'd been right about regretting the beer: drinking that (on top of three mugs of strong black coffee and the slice and a half of pizza Derek more or less insisted he eat) wasn't exactly the greatest idea Mark ever had. After a week on IV fluids, barely touched institutional grilled cheese sandwiches and two small cups of weak coffee a day, the sudden onslaught of food and drink had irritated his wrecked stomach into the predictable bout of nausea.

Now they were watching a baseball game – Mets vs. Padres – that Derek had found on TV. But between feeling sick and the fragile state of harmony between himself and Derek, Mark's attention wasn't really on the game. Maybe if the Yankees were playing he'd have been more focused. Maybe. Except that his head was swimming, his vision was blurry and he could hardly keep his eyes open; whenever it seemed like the nausea might have let up a little, another queasy wave came; and none of this was conducive to watching baseball, whoever was playing.

Taking a deep breath, he stretched and stood up. He couldn't do this right now. He'd had enough for one day and he had to sleep. "I gotta . . . " He gestured vaguely in the direction of the staircase. "The guest room's the first one of the left." He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and inhaled, trying to get it together long enough to say goodnight coherently. "What we were saying before?" he said. "You sticking around for this? I want you to know that I really appreciate it."

Derek nodded, acknowledging Mark's thanks wordlessly and briefly meeting his eyes. For a few seconds they stayed like that, somewhere between friendship and discomfort until Mark mumbled "I gotta crash," again and turned unsteadily towards the stairs.

* * *

Mark woke up face down on top of the bed, his clothes still on. He fumbled for the bedside lamp, blinking when the light pierced through his eyes and head with a ferocity that seemed beyond its dim capabilities. His mouth tasted foul – dry and bitter – and he licked his lips trying to work up some saliva. There was a heavy, unsettled feeling in his stomach. But he felt kind of better; nowhere near as bad as --

Sitting up and opening his eyes properly, he dragged his sluggish mind and body into the present and looked around, slowly coming to the agonizing realization of where he was. He had never intended to sleep in this room; hadn't known if he could ever willingly set foot in here again, and certainly not on his first day back. But exhausted, sick and preoccupied with Derek, he had stumbled up here on autopilot.

He made himself look at the bed. At her side. Where he'd leaned over her and pinned her arms and --

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to take in enough air to breathe steadily. His heart was thumping and his blood pounded in his ears and he let out a groan of absolute despair.

"Meredith," he whispered. "Mer. Baby."

He drew his knees up to his chest and clasped them, staring almost blindly ahead. He wasn't going to cry. He'd done enough of that and if he could not cry in therapy he could not cry here and anyway, more importantly, most fucking importantly, he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve the luxury of self-pity, which is all it would be. He didn't deserve --

He tried to swallow the sobs that started to pour out of him, tried to bite them back. And even while he was crying, he fought the whole time to keep up the pretense that he wasn't allowing this, as his shoulders shook violently and his throat constricted and he wept out his anguish at what he had become.

But there was something about this that was different from all the times he'd cried over the past year. And when he finally stopped, inhaling through the mucus that had accumulated in his nose, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he knew that he had to try. He couldn't ever be with her again, but he owed it to Meredith; owed it to Derek; owed it, he guessed, to himself to try to get through this.

It was all he could do. He couldn't change the past and this was all he could do.

He stood up, too abruptly for his head and his stomach, but ignored his body's protests and almost ran into the walk-in closet. A few of Meredith's things were hanging there and he faltered a little when he saw them. But he had to deal with reality and he forced himself to go further inside.

On one of the top shelves at the back was a box – brown cardboard, sealed with tape, a little ragged around the edges – with the letters "NY" scribbled in black marker pen. He pulled it down, set it on the carpeted floor, then squatted down in front of it, contemplating it as though it contained something dangerous. (Well, it contained memories and memories always seemed to be dangerous these days.) But if he was going to do this, he was going to do this. So he committed himself to sitting down more comfortably, legs stretched out on either side of the box, and peeled away the tape holding it closed.

Addison's face looked up at him. She was messy, smiling, dressed in his sweats and t-shirt, fresh out of the shower with wet hair scraped back off her face and dripping onto her shoulders. He couldn't help smiling. He had taken the picture with a Polaroid camera he had bought that morning when he went out to the little French bakery for the croissants she wanted for breakfast. He'd planned to take a picture of her on every day of her pregnancy (except this turned out to be the only one, because they'd fought viciously the next two days and then, well . . . that was the end of it) and he could remember thinking that this was the most beautiful she'd ever been – and, fuck, that was saying something. He touched the image of her face gently with one finger, then put the picture to one side.

The thought passed through his mind that he didn't have any pictures of Meredith. He'd never thought to take one. Now – even knowing that seeing her face would be torture – he kind of wished he had.

He fished through the box for more photographs. There was the football picture he'd remembered in Dr. Wyatt's office: Mark Sloan, Running Back, Number 27. Then a drunk-looking one, taken later, with his arm around – what the fuck was her name? – the cheerleader who was always good for quickies after the game. He couldn't remember.

"Dude," he muttered to the seventeen-year-old image of himself. "You really thought you were God's gift." He gave a soft, dry laugh. "Shame you turned into me, huh?"

Except that was all wrong. The state qualifier where the pictures were taken had been around two months after his seventeenth birthday. This guy – this arrogant, sexed-up football player – was only a month past breaking out in a cold sweat every time he thought about sex; only two months past taking up smoking; two months past remembering the degrading hell of his childhood; two months past whatever damaged defense mechanisms allowed him to block it all out again.

Mark's heart literally hurt for a moment as he looked at the young version of himself. Then he lost the feeling, swamped with self-contempt again, remembering Meredith, remembering everything he'd done since then. But there was a part of him that wondered, underneath it all, if this was the compassion Dr. Wyatt had talked about. It was just enough to make him think that she might be on to something and he searched through the box again.

Him and Derek fishing one weekend in college. (He looked pissed! He'd always hated fishing. Why the hell did he agree to go?) Him and Derek and Addison (and some girl he was looking past at Addison) at a med school party. Derek looking up from a textbook. Him, out of focus, throwing a textbook at an invisible Derek, who had been taking the picture. Addison and Savvy drinking what was clearly one too many martinis.

He looked carefully at Savvy's smiling face. She didn't really look all that much like his mother – the same type, yeah, but not really the same. And, even if she had, physical coincidence was hardly her fault. He felt kind of bad that he'd always been so distant with her: she'd always been nice to him; even been a little disapprovingly sympathetic when he broke up her two best friends' marriage, because she could tell how much he was hurting and knew he loved Addison.

But Savvy wasn't the point. Nor was Addison. That wasn't why he was digging around in here.

He scrabbled in the bottom of the box (throwing out a tattered baseball mitt and – and God only knew why this was in there - a cracked test tube) in a last attempt to unearth any pictures of him as a little kid that might he might have salvaged. But, of course, there were none. Because, like he'd said, who the hell would keep pictures to remind themselves they'd gone through that?

Then he made a decision.

* * *

Three hours later, Mark was seated in First Class on the 6:35 am flight from SeaTac to JFK. Dr. Wyatt said quick, intensive therapy could work well with recovered memories. Seeing his mother again had to be about as intensive as it got. Still, what didn't kill you made you stronger, right? And if he was going to do this thing with the photograph, that was the only way he was going to get hold of one.

A woman across the aisle looked up from some kind of report and smiled at him, peeking up from under her glossy brown hair. She was cute – late thirties, he guessed; well-dressed – corporate with a little hint of cleavage; and clearly interested in him in a kind of lazy, take-it-or-leave-it-but-it-could-be-fun way.

He had showered and trimmed his beard and moustache; was wearing fresh clothes – black dress pants, dark grey cashmere v-neck sweater over a black t-shirt. She probably thought he was the man he appeared to be (if you didn't look too closely at the dark circles and red rims of his eyes). She probably wouldn't be smiling at him that way if she knew all the shit that was simmering under the façade.

* * *

When Derek came downstairs that morning, he found a fresh pot of coffee in the coffee maker and a scrawled note.

_Derek_

_Don't freak out. This isn't a suicide note. __Cross my heart and _(Mark had broken off and drawn a line through these words) _That's in poor taste, I guess. Put it down to me being crazy._

_I just have to go away for a few days. I have to do something. I don't want to tell you what, but it's fine. I'll be fine._

_Could you do me one more favor and let Dr. Wyatt in Psych know that I've gone? I didn't want to call her because they have all kinds of procedures up there and I just had to do this without anyone trying to stop me. Tell her I'm sorry I'm missing therapy. And tell her I meant what I said about staying alive. She's a good person – a good doctor - she'll understand._

_Thanks._

_Mark_

_PS: I __am__ a shitty friend._

Derek sighed, poured a cup of coffee and carried it into the hall, where he dug in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone and dialed Mark's number. Mark's 'I'm fine' reminded him of Meredith. Because obviously Mark wasn't fine and Derek hoped like hell that his assurances were real and not just an attempt to spare people's feelings or buy himself time. The phone went straight to voicemail. For a moment, Derek hesitated, then, preparing himself with a deep breath, he said, "I'm holding you to that. And, Mark . . . you're my brother. I care about you. Please remember that."

Hanging up, he walked back through the kitchen and out onto the deck, where he leaned against the handrail. This was the most beautiful house; Mark had been trying so hard to build a life and, for one moment, he saw past Meredith and his feelings about her and his disgust with Mark to the pure pain that Mark must be feeling. He was struck again with Mark's ability to survive and he hoped that, whatever was going on with him now, he hadn't lost that.

- - - - -

It was kind of nice, for a moment of denial, to smile back at a sexy, available woman. Airplanes, especially First Class, were one of the best places to get laid without strings. He knew all about that once.

Now any attempt – and Mark was willing to bet it would only be an attempt and not a very pretty one – to have mile-high sex would probably end with him pouring his heart out instead of fucking.

He glanced down, disconnecting from the woman's gaze, making it clear that he wasn't going there, and when he looked up again, she was back to reading her report, totally unconcerned. She would probably have been great if there was anything left of the man he used to be.

Thing was, though, what was important now was the man he had to try to become.

* * *

_Title song:_ _**What I've Done**_, Linkin Park

_I'll face myself  
To cross out what I've become  
Erase myself  
And let go of what I've done_

_Put to rest  
What you thought of me  
While I clean this slate  
With the hands of uncertainty_


	16. This Is How You Know You're Alive

Chapter 16 – This Is How You Know You're Alive

Rain was falling - the kind of heavy downpour that interrupts summer days in New York – and Mark was sitting in his rental car across the tree-lined street from the house he grew up in.

It was all pretty much the same. Same sweeping semi-circle of gravel driveway; same immaculately trimmed lawn; same trees (some of them substantially bigger than he remembered); same hollow, sinking mixture of anger and fear in his gut when he saw the new BMW M3 parked in front of the house. The year and model were different – everything else was relentlessly the same.

He gripped the steering wheel and bowed his head, taking a deep breath. She was sixty years old, for fuck's sake, and he was forty. She couldn't do anything to hurt him. Just get in, ask for a picture and get out. That's all he had to do. He didn't owe her any kind of manners or explanations and if he upset her, well, so much the better.

He swallowed, started up the engine and forced himself to drive the short distance. Pulling up at the gate, he searched the dashboard for the window control, taking another deep breath as he watched the window roll down, then reached through and pressed the button for the intercom.

"Yes?" The voice was sharp, kind of high pitched. But, thank God, male – probably one of the staff – which gave him another few minutes before he had to face her.

Mark ran a hand over his face. His heart was thudding and a cold, clammy sweat was running down the inside of his arms. "Uh . . . yeah . . . I'm . . . " He pressed his eyes closed. "I'm Dr. Sloan."

"How can I help you, sir?"

Sighing, Mark tried again. "I'm . . . Mark Sloan. I'm here to see . . . " He didn't know what to call her. He couldn't make himself say _my mother_ out loud. Just the thought, here, outside her house made him feel dirty and kind of ashamed. It was too intimate, too close and he didn't want to acknowledge it – any of it. He couldn't if he was going to get through this. Finally, he said, "Mrs. Sloan."

There was a pause, then a quiet, "Mark Sloan?" It was spoken as though asking for a simple confirmation, but the guy couldn't quite disguise his curiosity.

"Yeah." Mark gave a soft, cynical snort – he found it perversely amusing that they talked about him and somehow that gave him the courage he needed. "Tell her the prodigal's returned, would you?"

Somewhere inside he felt a pang. The bravado? The sarcasm? It was the same process he'd gone through years before when he'd clamped down his emotions to stop the pain. It was like watching himself change from the kid who felt everything to the man who everyone thought felt nothing. It was a tired old façade – one he thought he'd left behind. But if he'd believed in anything, he would have sent up a prayer of thanks right about now – because tired and old though it might be, the act was what was going to get him through this.

* * *

Pamela Sloan tipped a handful of ice into a plain crystal glass. (Nothing changed in this house). "Drink?" she asked, briefly focusing on Mark with icy blue eyes.

He shook his head, watching as she poured herself a large scotch. With strategically blonde highlights in her elegant pale gray chignon and taut, smooth skin, she looked too young. She also looked too damned unfazed by him being here – and that was slowly leaching away his ability to put up a front. That and her new choice of drink. "I thought you drank gin." Scotch was his thing – his, Derek's, Derek's dad's – and it kind of sickened him to think about her drinking his drink, tainting one more thing in his life.

She raised an eyebrow, appraising him and he instantly regretted his words. He was sitting on the over-stuffed couch, leaning back, arm resting casually like he didn't give a fuck. But it was all a total lie. He was a wreck – hanging on by the skin of his teeth to the image he'd thought he could pull off. His remark was a little too invested and she noticed (she noticed everything – he remembered that now).

His stomach clenched, his emotions caught somewhere between wanting to curl up in the corner and smack her in the face. But he covered it, somehow. He was a match for her; she couldn't fucking hurt him.

Glass in hand, she glided over to the Victorian armchair opposite him and sat down, crossing her legs with a swish of couture pants. "You look . . ." She raised her eyebrow again, a little caustic smile on her lips, "older."

_I look like what you made me, you unkind bitch, _Mark thought. He wondered (hating himself for wondering) if she'd care if she knew he had cancer; knew he'd spent the past week in the psych ward directly because of her. "You look like you've had a lot of work done," he replied, taking satisfaction in the discomfort that flickered in her eyes before the smug non-smiling smile was back in place.

"Well . . . " She sipped her drink, the ice clinking against the side of the glass. "New York is full of plastic surgeons, after all. One may as well make use of them." She scanned him and he glanced down, hating that he was giving ground, but not wanting to look her in the eye. "Weren't you supposed to be the best once upon a time?" she asked. "Before your little indiscretion with the Shepherd boy's wife forced you out to God-knows-where-ville." She laughed – that little laugh somewhere between vitality and taunting that had assaulted his memories. "Where is it again? Portland, Oregon?"

For a moment, Mark really thought he was going to be sick. He didn't like that she knew these details about his life. He knew it was just gossip – society bullshit – but he didn't like the invasion; and worse, he didn't like the feeling that she still had the power to make him feel bad. He swallowed, regrouping and making himself get it together. "Seattle," he corrected her in a low voice. "Seattle Grace. It's a good hospital. I'm the Head of Plastics. I do a lot of reconstructive work."

Jesus Christ! What the fuck was he doing? It was like he was twelve again and hoping against hope that she'd approve of his science grade.

"So near L.A. and yet so far," she said. "Still, you wouldn't be your father's son if you weren't ruled by sex. But even _he_ had the sense to separate his professional life from his affairs."

"Ruled by sex, huh?" Mark growled dangerously. He didn't know how he got the words past the bile in his throat; because this . . . this was too much to take. Then he lost it, just for a second, and added, "Wonder how I got that way."

She put her head on one side. "Excuse me?"

He hadn't intended the conversation to go like this. He didn't want to confront her; he didn't want to hear her denial; he didn't want to be subject to her all over again. It just came out and now he was powerless to stop himself.

This time there was no growl in his voice, no barrier between his feelings and his words. He looked into her eyes and asked her straight and from his heart. "Why'd you do it?" He swallowed. "Why did you do that to me? You were . . . you were supposed to be my mom."

For a split second, she was still, caught in his eyes. Then she lifted the glass and took a drink. "Well . . . we can't all be the sainted Carolyn Shepherd, can we?"

He didn't know anymore whether this had ever been about photographs, or whether that had just been a line he'd fed himself. Because he realized that he wanted her to say she was sorry, that he mattered, that it wasn't his fault . . . and that she never would. The momentary recognition he'd glimpsed only made it worse.

She cleared her throat and reached over to the small table next to her chair, opening a carved box and pulling out a cigarette. "Do you smoke?" she asked, offensively serene.

_Yeah, thanks to you_, he thought. A cigarette, even one of hers, would be good right about now. What the hell difference would it make if he smoked? His life wasn't going anywhere – he was always going to be scarred by what she did. But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of revealing any more feelings and shook his head.

She picked up a slim platinum lighter and lit the cigarette, then took a long drag, blowing a slow stream of smoke across the room.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mark?" she asked. "After fourteen years of not acknowledging I exist."

There was a slight note of accusation in her voice and Mark almost laughed. It was almost funny that this woman - this critical, abusive atrocity of a mother – could sit there and imply that he'd wronged her in some way. That is, it would have been funny if it hadn't been so damn tragic.

He stood up, wanting to get out as soon as he could. His head was dizzy and pounding, but he was determined to leave here with his façade firmly intact (he'd given away too much already and gotten fuck all in return except total loss of hope). He wasn't going to ask her for pictures now – he didn't want anything that belonged to her and, whatever Dr. Wyatt said, this was way beyond looking at photographs. He'd relived enough goddamned feelings right here in this room and they'd only left him more fucked-up than when he came. So he braced himself and locked his gaze with hers.

"I thought I needed something from you." He kept his voice at a low, rough near-whisper, carefully controlling the tremor that was just under the surface. "You and I both know why I haven't seen you in fourteen years and I thought —" _I thought that after screwing up my life before it even started you could maybe help me . . . just once. _But what was the fucking use? He should have known better and never come here in the first place. He raised his hands, surrendering. "I'm done here," he said. "Have a nice life, Pam."

Reeling inside, but still with just about enough presence of mind to make it look good, he turned towards the door and walked out.

All he wanted was to get as far away from her as possible. He was never going to escape the memories and the damage; but he _could_ escape _her _and her god-awful house.

But instead of going straight to the car as he intended, some instinct built from anything but his best interests led him to the kitchen and the door to the backyard. He tried to fight it –tried not to go down the path of least resistance and turn to his old familiar refuge, but he had to see it one more time, so he carried on, through the door and across the yard to the old boathouse by the lake.

He held it together just long enough to open the creaky door and step inside. Then he just gave up and sank down where he was on the dusty floor, drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his hands. Coming here hadn't made him stronger – in fact, he thought it might just about have killed him.

* * *

"Do you think I should cut my hair?" Meredith asked.

Cristina ignored her, turning a page of the journal she was reading and took a sip of her coffee.

It seemed normal – sitting with Cristina in the residents' lounge, drinking coffee – and normal was exactly what Meredith needed right now. So she asked a normal question. Perhaps not normal for her and Cristina, because they didn't tend to discuss hairstyles too often; but it seemed like the kind of thing normal people talked about on normal days.

In any case, she was having a recurring dream about hair. Well, it started with Mark and sunny rooms, progressed through monsters under the bed (to use a euphemism that brought it into the realm of 'normal' just enough to make it bearable) and ended with hair cutting. But if you ignored the rest of it, it was a dream about cutting her hair and the idea had a certain appeal.

She gave Cristina a little nudge, earning a scowling raised eyebrow in return. "So? What do you think?"

"You're asking me about hair?"

"I'm asking you about hair."

Cristina looked at her with an expression somewhere between exasperation and deep concern. "I assume that's symbolic metaphorical hair?" she asked. "Because today's . . . this week's burning question couldn't possibly be about actual _hair _hair."

Meredith sighed. "Cristina. I know I've been avoiding you. But I couldn't talk . . . I didn't know what to say and I didn't know how to say it. But now . . ." She swallowed. Okay, it probably, no definitely, was breathtakingly stupid and, most likely, metaphorical and symbolic, but she wanted her friend back and she wanted some semblance of normality and she didn't want to talk about Mark. "Yes. I'm asking you about hair."

"Well, as long as it's about hair, I'm not answering you." Cristina thumbed through the remaining pages of the journal and then flipped it shut. "Have you seen Mark yet?" she asked pointedly.

"Have you been talking to Alex?" Meredith replied, attempting to deflect the conversation.

"Not if I can possibly help it," Cristina replied. "Why? Does he think you should —?"

"I _went_ to see Mark," Meredith broke in, desperately wishing this wasn't happening. This was not what she was aiming for when she determined today was going to be normal. "We're over. He has a shrink and Derek and . . . we're over." She stared at Cristina, begging with her eyes for empathy.

Cristina nodded dryly. "And the fact that he's a psych patient doesn't change anything? Shouldn't you . . . I don't know . . . stand by him or whatever?"

"Shouldn't _you_ stand by _me_?" Meredith demanded. She could feel tears prickling her eyes and she blinked them away furiously. "You know me. You're my friend. You know everything you need to know without the details." She took a deep breath. "That's why I've been avoiding you. But I don't want to anymore. I want to be normal. I want to be me again. I want to be fine: I have to be. We've been through all this before and nothing has changed except it's all a little bit worse and I can't do this without you. So shut up, stop asking questions and tell me if you think I should cut my freaking hair!"

"I think —" Cristina began, but then broke off, distracted and peered through the open door. "Why is Shepherd hovering in the hallway?" She ducked her head. "Crap, I caught his eye."

Meredith pressed her eyes closed and sighed. "Not now," she muttered to herself. "Please not now."

"Too late," Cristina said under her breath, as Derek, from the doorway, asked, "Meredith, can I have a word?"

Meredith opened her eyes wearily. "What is it, Derek?"

"I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't be involving you in this, but . . ." He scanned her face evasively, without quite looking. She was grateful for the lack of eye contact: eye contact with Derek was almost always lethal to any pretense of normality. "Mark's gone."

"Gone?" She looked briefly at Cristina, not understanding, and Cristina shrugged.

"Psych released him yesterday and I . . . went home with him. He wasn't in very good shape." He looked down briefly as though his loyalty, recounted in front of her, embarrassed him.

"Why are you telling me?" she asked and her entire body tensed.

Derek plunged his hand into his pocket and dragged out a slightly crumpled piece of paper, which he handed to her. "Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" he asked.

Meredith unfolded the note, wishing her hands weren't shaking; wishing she didn't want to run her fingers over the well-known handwriting; wishing she didn't care and that this would all just be over. _Don't freak out. This isn't a suicide note._ She swallowed and briefly bit her lip. "Why would I?" she asked, trying (and failing) to sound unconcerned as she folded the note and held it out to Derek.

He shifted uncomfortably, reaching for the note. "I guess I'm worried about him," he said, not answering her question. "After what he's been through and," he hesitated and glanced at Cristina, who was watching him intently, "after your . . . break-up. I want to believe him; his psychiatrist was very clear that she believed him. But his phone is switched off, and I'm" he shook his head slightly, "I'm worried about him. And I suppose I thought you ought to know."

Meredith nodded absently. "You've known him your whole life, Derek," she said. "You probably have a better idea where he might have gone than I would, even if . . . even if we were still together." But she couldn't help remembering that uncharacteristically long speech – the one he'd been so awkward about but meant with all his heart – when Mark told her she made him want to live. That was the first time she ever saw his house; the beautiful after-date with the candles and the love and the fucking like it was making love that was better than any sex she ever had or ever even imagined. He'd said he wanted to live because she had changed his life.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. He wouldn't do anything stupid; he'd written that in the note to Derek; he was making progress – he'd said so when she visited him. And she couldn't worry about him; she couldn't think about him. She had to think about herself. She opened her eyes and made herself look at Derek, silently pleading with him not to ask any more questions.

He nodded, giving a sad, tired smile of thanks and understanding, then turned away without another word, putting the note back in his pocket and left the lounge.

But once he was gone, Meredith's thoughts started racing over the same ground again. "Derek was just . . . he was just asking, right? He doesn't think . . . you don't think . . . Mark wouldn't . . . ?"

Cristina scrutinized her. "What did the note say?"

"It said he wouldn't. And something about . . . doing something and talking to his shrink. But it said he wouldn't." She swallowed. "It said he wouldn't and Derek said his shrink believes that's true and she must know. She seems very good – kind of scary - but scary in a good shrink kind of way, so —"

"So you wait. Because there's nothing else you can do," Cristina said. "But Mer," she paused. "You still care about him and you need to stop asking me about hair and deal with that."

"No," Meredith said firmly. "No, I . . ." She couldn't work out if the real answer was _no _or _yes_. She couldn't bear the thought of Mark harming himself, or even hurting and having no one to help him; but every time she thought about being there for him, forgiving him as she offered to do in the psych ward (although she honestly wasn't sure she could have lived up to this) she found herself almost hating him. She needed to think about herself. She couldn't still long for him; she couldn't allow herself to remember feeling safe with him; she couldn't care about him. Because what he'd said, and what he'd done? You didn't come back from that. He had been right when he said it wasn't forgivable. She wished him well; she chose to believe that he was okay; but she had to move on. She had . . . she had . . . "I have to cut my stupid hair!" was all that would come out. "And you have to be interested. Because you're my person and cutting my stupid hair is the closest thing to normal I have right now."

For a moment, Cristina was silent. Then she said, "Okay," in perhaps the softest voice Meredith had ever heard her use.

* * *

These days, waking up generally meant disorientation. But the panic Mark felt when he awoke slumped against the wall of the boathouse came from an all too clear understanding of where he was. He scrambled up and reflexively brushed cobwebs and dust off his pants, then pushed out through the door, barely noticing the driving rain in his desperation to get the fuck away from his mother's property.

Back in the car, wet and cold, he pulled on his leather jacket, zipping it against the chill that was seeping through him and drove quickly through the security gates and back outside into the relief of being anonymous for a while.

His plan had been to get a picture and drive straight back to the airport in time to make his return flight to Seattle. But he hadn't left himself much time. If he'd managed to maintain the manic optimism he'd flown out here with, he might just have made it. But then, he'd thought he could deal with this; he'd thought something might actually change; that he was taking charge of his life. Now, he'd kind of lost the will to take charge of anything. So he just drove around for a while, half-noticing changes to the neighborhood he'd hoped he'd never see again, rain streaming down the windshield with the wipers on full, until the streets got narrower and the houses closer together and he found himself pulling up outside the place he used to think of as home.

He knew he shouldn't be here. Because what the hell did you say to the mother of the guy whose life you wrecked — twice? But he convinced himself that she wouldn't be there; and, anyway, he wouldn't ring the doorbell, he'd just take a look at the house and then go.

He told himself that right up until he stood on the porch and leaned his head against the doorframe and knocked softly on the door.

Lost in his own thoughts – if you could call them that – Mark barely registered the door opening next to him until she said his name. "Mark?"

"Mrs. Shepherd," he said quietly, then raised his head and looked at her. "I . . . you probably don't . . . " He trailed off and shrugged. "I was just here and I . . ." He shook his head. "I'll just go. I've got a flight to catch." But he didn't move.

"You're soaked," she said, opening the door a little wider to usher him in. She was a little withheld, her voice a little clipped. But _you're soaked_ stood in for _come in_ and, honestly, he didn't have the energy to argue. He was too tired, too lost to do the right thing and leave her alone. This house had always been the place he came to be looked after – to experience, even if it was only second-hand, what it was like to have a family who loved him – and right now he needed a little of that, even if it was just memories.

"Give me that," she said, indicating his leather jacket. When he handed it to her and she took it, she let her hand linger just for a second on his arm and he felt his throat constrict. He hadn't expected kindness from her and it was almost too much.

She led him through to the kitchen and pointed to the chairs surrounding the large pine wood table. "Sit down," she said and, as he did so, poured two cups of coffee and brought them over to the table.

"I haven't seen you in a long time," she said, sitting next to him at the head of the table. "Or my son, for that matter." She raised an eyebrow and gave a slight, wry smile.

Mark nodded and cleared his throat softly. "I didn't . . . I didn't really think you'd want me here. Not after . . . "

"It's your home," she said, in the way she had that made a plainly stated fact sound like the most loving thing you'd ever heard. "You seem to have forgotten that. Derek too." She paused. "How are you?"

"You know," he shrugged. "Okay."

She drew in her upper lip a little and raised her eyebrow again. "Really? Because you look awful."

He shrugged again and took a sip of coffee. "Some stuff . . . happened, I guess. It's nothing. I'll be —"

"Addison left you," she broke in. "Nancy told me. That must have been hard after what you . . . what you gave up to be with her."

Mark let out a short laugh at his own expense. "That's an exceptionally nice way of putting it, Mrs. Shepherd," he said. He was grateful, but at the same time her generosity made him feel truly ashamed.

She shrugged. "I don't suppose you were the only one to blame," she said. "I saw Addison and Derek together in the last years of their marriage. Clearly it took more than one person to wreck it." She smiled slightly. "And I think you can probably start calling me Carolyn now. At the age of forty."

He shook his head. "No," he said. "You're Mrs. Shepherd. Always will be." It was one of the few constants in his life; at least, one of the few good ones.

"Well, thank you for sitting there with gray hair and making me feel a hundred and fifty years old," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But if it makes you happy, I guess I can live with it." She took a sip of her coffee. "Derek has a new girlfriend, I understand. Meredith, isn't it? Is she good for him?"

Mark froze. It was dumb and inappropriate, but he'd been starting to relax. It was nice, sitting here, kidding himself that he belonged. "I'm not really the right person to ask about that," he deflected, wanting to put off the moment when she realized he'd ruined another of Derek's most important relationships and took back everything she said about this being his home and him not being the only one to blame.

"Okay," she said, drawing the word out reluctantly. She seemed a little surprised, maybe a little disappointed. But she always had been good at taking a hint not to probe where she wasn't wanted, and she changed the subject. "Are you hungry? Would you like a sandwich?" She eyed him. "You look thin."

"I'm fine," he said again, suddenly confused by all the emotions that washed through him. He could remember the first night she let him stay over – sitting at the same kitchen table, with Derek, eating grilled cheese sandwiches and thinking they were the best thing he'd ever tasted, mostly because it was the first night in his life that he wouldn't have to sleep in the same house as his mother.

"So," she said, smiling briskly. "What brings you here?"

"I came to see Pam," he said quietly.

"You haven't seen your mother in years. Why —?"

He sighed, effectively cutting off her words and ran his hands over his face. Seeing her again, the memory of the sandwich, the feeling of unconditional love that was never really his but he clung to anyway were all pushing him to tell her the reason he was here. She had always been his last hope; kind of sacred – because he knew she would help him; but at the same time he was terrified to test it in case she didn't believe him and thought he was bad. Somehow he felt like, if he told her now, he might feel better, something might change for him and coming here wouldn't have been a waste of time. But it was too late; there was too much damage; and what the hell was she supposed to do about it thirty-one years later? "Nothing important. I should get going."

He half stood up, but a violent wave of dizziness hit him and forced him back into his seat. "Shit, I'm sorry," he groaned (forgetting for a moment that no one ever swore in front of Mrs. Shepherd) and put his elbows on the table, letting his head drop into his hands.

"I heard," she said carefully, "that you have cancer. I heard it from Nancy, who got it from Addison."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "But that's not —"

"Did it ever occur to you or my idiotic son that I might have liked to help you?"

Mark looked up. Her eyes were glistening with traces of tears. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think . . . after everything that happened . . . " He trailed off, then added, "I'm in remission now. My crazy oncologist turned me into her lab rat and apparently it worked."

He smiled. She didn't smile back.

"Which is why you're underweight by at least twenty pounds and almost collapsing at my kitchen table?"

"Maybe," he said uncomfortably. He never could really lie to her, even when he thought he was doing it to protect her, and any more questions would open the floodgates he was trying so hard to keep closed. "I'm still on a modified form of treatment and it gets kind of rough sometimes."

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously. She never bought lies, either.

"I promise," he said. "As far as I know, I'm in remission." Then he looked down, hoping he'd seem more plausible if she couldn't see his eyes. "I just thought it was time I saw Pam, that's all."

Mrs. Shepherd sniffed indignantly. "Your mother is one of the most selfish, unfit people I've . . . oh, don't get me started. And I know perfectly well how you feel about her." She paused. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," Mark insisted, still looking down. But then added, "You don't want to know."

"You can tell me anything," she said. He could hear the concern in her voice. "You know that."

Mark swallowed. "I always wanted to tell you," he said. "I thought . . . if you knew . . ." He closed his eyes, trying to stop himself, but the words kept coming. "She sexually abused me. I don't know when it started – but early, when I was a little kid. It stopped when I was around nine."

Mrs. Shepherd's hand flew in front of her mouth. "She —?"

"I'd blocked it out I guess. But," he shook his head, "recently I started to remember more and more and I . . . I kind of had a breakdown. My shrink thought a picture of me as a kid would be helpful for therapy and I don't have any, so I —"

"Stop, Mark," she interrupted, holding up a hand as she shook her head, trying to make sense of what he'd just told her. "You're telling me that, when you were playing baseball with Derek, when he brought you back here, when I thought you were just . . . neglected, your mother was . . . ?" She shook her head more vigorously. "No . . . I can't . . ."

For the second time that day, Mark felt as though he was going to throw up purely from the emotions that were coursing through him. His stomach felt like a lead weight as he said, very quietly, "You don't believe me?" He didn't have it in him to be angry with her; he was just desperately let down and hurt. Like a little kid whose last hope had just been taken away.

"Sweetheart," she said, her voice low and powerful, "I believe you. I believe you," she put her hand over her heart, "with everything I have. I . . ." She trailed off and stared at him for a moment, before opening her arms. "Come here." She put her arms around him and held him a tight hug. "I just wish I could have done this at the right time," she said, as he allowed himself accept the comfort he had wanted and needed so badly when he was a child.

Then she pushed him gently away, cupping the side of his face with her hand. A tear ran down her face and she swallowed. "I don't want to believe she did that to you. And I don't want to believe that you went through all that and you thought you couldn't tell me." She took a deep breath. "I want you to know and understand that I would have helped you. I would have taken you away from her and I would have made sure you never had to go back there. And I . . ." her voice broke and Mark took her hand, not having words, but wanting to convey what he felt through his actions. "_I _have pictures. I have pictures of you."

* * *

_Title song: __**Sea of Doubts**_, Azure Ray

_But nothing could move this heart  
Until I held the boy's hand  
The little one spoke like a man  
He showed me death and said  
This is how you know you're alive_


	17. You Fall Away From Your Past

A/N: I am very sorry for the months that have passed without an update. I am also sorry that, despite my promises, I have not yet completed the entire fic. I _have_ written quite a few scenes and hope to pull together the rest of it in much less time than it took to get to this chapter. I kind of lost confidence in my ability to write this story, but now I think I've found it again. I hope I still have readers left, but I will understand if too much time has gone by. If, on the other hand, you're still hanging in there -- thank you.

Many thanks to Escapismrocks, my awesome beta.

Warning: there are aspects of this chapter that some readers could find disturbing.

* * *

Chapter 17 – You Fall Away From Your Past, But It's Following You

"I was thinking," Mark said uncertainly, "I'd like to try going back to work."

Dr. Wyatt's eyes flickered over him and she nodded, just once, to acknowledge she'd heard him, but didn't reply, waiting several painfully dragged-out seconds.

There were worlds of denial behind the question, and the look on the shrink's face made it clear that she knew that. But he didn't exactly need reminding. It was just that Mrs. Shepherd, Derek's voicemail -- they'd changed something for him. Something had shifted: he had to take advantage of that it before it got away from him.

He'd slept almost well, two nights running (the first one in Mrs. Shepherd's guest room). He'd gotten almost hungry (he'd almost forgotten how that felt until Mrs. Shepherd served him a grilled cheese sandwich) and eaten a couple of times without too much rebellion from his stomach. He felt good (kind of, at least by comparison with what he was used to) and he wanted to make something good come from it all.

"How did it feel? Seeing your mother again?"

That is, he _had _felt good. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. He was only doing this by not thinking about his mother; by not thinking about anything except Mrs. Shepherd, Derek, surgery. He swallowed before adding a softer, "Don't, okay?" But the damage was done; he could feel all the optimism slipping away. Still, he needed this; he owed people this, so he asked again, "What do you think . . . about work?

"Do you think you're ready?"

Honestly? Of course he wasn't fucking ready; he didn't know if he'd ever be ready. But he said, "Yeah . . .?" wishing it didn't sound so frail and pathetic, then added a firmer, "Yes."

She nodded. "We can discuss it," she said carefully. "It's not productive to prolong intensive daily therapy unnecessarily. But . . ." She paused, weighing her words. "You have to understand that what you did -- taking off impulsively, worrying your friends, missing your therapy sessions without warning," she gave a small shrug, "your reluctance to talk to me now -- none of that suggests that you're ready. None of that tells me I should even consider recommending to Dr. Webber that you should start work again."

"I get how it looks," Mark conceded, glancing down so he didn't have to meet her eyes. "But going to New York kind of worked out."

Dr. Wyatt tilted her head to one side. "So tell me how it felt to see your mother?" she persisted.

"It was the seeing Mrs. Shepherd part that worked out," he said. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it. All I want is to get past it. Couldn't you," he closed his eyes, "I don't know, just give me a break? Let me try going back to work?" His voice became rougher as his feelings took over. "I'm going to be in therapy for the rest of my fucking life, right? I'm pretty sure we'll get on to it."

His thoughts briefly switched to the envelope full of photographs in the bag at his feet. Mrs. Shepherd had given them to him. He hadn't been able to look at them yet. The thought of looking at them, trying to relate to that little kid, was too hard. Being in his mother's house had been too hard. He just wanted to cling to the kindness Mrs. Shepherd had shown him and try to use that to get back to what was left of his life as an adult. He didn't need this goddamn inquisition.

"There's no need for you to be in therapy for the rest of your life." Dr. Wyatt said steadily. "Not if you _work_ with me. If you work with me, now, when it hurts the most. We've discussed how intensive therapy can work well for recovered memories and you agreed --"

"Jesus Christ!" Mark broke in angrily. She was taking away everything, every hope he had. He'd been doing so well at holding everything he didn't want to feel in check and now it was all just going into freefall. "What part of _I don't want to talk about it_ aren't you getting?" He shot a derisory glance at the framed credentials on the wall. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this shit. I _thought_ the point of this was for me to feel better."

Again, she made the single, acknowledging nod, subtly but obviously disagreeing and holding her ground.

"Well, hey! I feel better!" He was almost yelling now. "Correction. I _felt_ better. So much for therapy, huh?" It was a lame retort, angry and childish, but it was the best he'd got right now. Her insistence was breaking him down and inside his head he wordlessly pleaded with her not to push him anymore.

Dr. Wyatt uncrossed her legs and crossed them again the other way, brushing some specks of lint off her gray wool pants. "If you work with me, now, when it hurts the most," she repeated in a quiet, regular tone, "we may be able to accomplish something. Maybe we'll make a breakthrough. Maybe you'll be back at work before you know it." She paused. "And maybe you _will_ be in therapy for years. But this part of the therapy, this crucial part . . . we have to do this _now_. When you don't want to." She fixed her eyes on his. "When it feels like the pain's going to kill you and you're trying to cover it up with all kinds of things which are wonderful -- and yes, it's wonderful that Mrs. Shepherd was there for you -- but which aren't in any way the point."

"She would've helped me. She cared about me. If I'd just told her, I wouldn't have this fucked up mess of a life. That's the point. That's all the fucking point there is."

Dr. Wyatt waited a few seconds before saying quietly, "Dr. Sloan. I don't think you understand me."

"I'm damn sure I don't," Mark almost snarled, not knowing where he'd found the menace in his voice when everything was falling apart. "'Cause from where I'm sitting, you're hell bent on taking away the one good thing in my life. The one thing I could use to get out of this. So yeah, you're right -- I don't understand you."

She inhaled slowly, then let the breath out. "If you had consulted me, I would have told you not to go to New York. You weren't ready for that. You weren't ready to see your mother," she said. "But since you chose to do this, we now have no choice but to work with it. Without that, you're not ready to go back to work; without that, I cannot evaluate you as emotionally and mentally fit."

"Well, that's just great." Mark muttered, raising his hands in defeat. "That's just fucking great."

Dr. Wyatt leaned back in her chair, saying nothing, waiting. Not wanting to give in, Mark also sat in silence, in a kind of stalemate, until his anger and despondency took over.

He kicked at his bag to get it within reach, loudly unzipped it and then plunged his hand inside, pulling out the envelope of photographs, which he tossed across the coffee table towards Dr. Wyatt. "That's what I went for," he said. "I was trying to do what you wanted. I was trying to be a part of your goddamn process. I went to see my bitch of a mother to get pictures." His heart was racing and he took a breath trying to steady it. It didn't work. "She knows what she did. She knows damn well what she did and she doesn't give a fuck. She doesn't care about me; she never did; I'm . . . I'm nothing to her. Less than nothing." He shook his head. "How do you do that and not care, huh? How do you wreck someone's life – your kid's life -- and then make snide remarks about their sex life? Jesus, that takes some kind of balls, doesn't it?" He looked into Dr. Wyatt's eyes, willing her to understand him. "I thought I could handle it. I just wanted to get pictures. But the only thing that worked out was seeing Mrs. Shepherd. She brought me back. If I don't run with that, if you don't let me go back to work, I'm not going to get through this."

The shrink looked briefly down at her notebook and cleared her throat. "It was incredibly brave," she said softly.

Mark felt a small rush of something warm in his chest, then everything he was trying to accomplish here and everything he was trying to avoid blotted it out. "Yeah?" he asked cynically. "So let me go back to work."

"Incredibly _stupid_," she added. "But incredibly brave. The only person in that room who had balls, Dr. Sloan, was you." She shook her head slightly, as though trying to figure out what to say next, then leaned forwards. "Your mother is not a whole person. She's not my concern, of course, and I'm saying this for only one reason -- to help you see your own worth. Your mother is not a whole person. But _you_ . . . you are so close." She paused, studying him. "It's so hard to love. It's so hard for _you_ to love. And yet, somehow, you do."

Mark tried to take in her words, tried to hold onto the warm feeling that surfaced again, but he couldn't. His mind was swimming and nothing made sense. He wanted to believe her, wanted to add her words to Mrs Shepherd's and have it all equal some kind of rescue. But all he could feel was pain and disgust at himself. He shook his head. "You wouldn't say that if you knew who I am. What I've done."

"I think I have a pretty good idea who you are," she said in the same steady voice.

"Yeah, but you don't." He honestly didn't want to go down this path, but now he seemed powerless to stop himself. "There's stuff I haven't told you. There's always stuff I don't tell people, because that's the only way anyone would ever stick around."

"For example?" she probed.

"For example," he mimicked her words, "being in love with my best friend's wife while I worked with him and went out for drinks and hung out at their house."

"Okay," she said. "But I _do _know about that and we've discussed it. And --"

"And there's something I didn't tell Mrs. Shepherd," he said, then sighed deeply. His mind was relentless; he didn't want to talk about this but somehow he couldn't help it. He kept telling itself it was okay. It had no bearing on the past. She would still have helped him when he was a kid and that was what mattered. "I didn't tell her about Meredith."

He had intended to. He _should_ have. But at first it was too uncomfortable. And then? He wasn't really clear on the truth. The conversation reached the point where it felt like he'd just be playing on her sympathies. But he had to admit (and he wasn't proud of this) he was afraid of her reaction if he told her he'd taken yet another woman from Derek. He was afraid she'd take back all her care and leave him stranded again. He couldn't take that. Not after she'd been so kind. The truth wasn't worth the risk of so much pain.

Dr. Wyatt's eyes immediately focused sharply on his. "What about Meredith?"

The question was so incisive, like she'd been waiting for him to mention Meredith again. And suddenly, although he tried not to show it on the outside, everything inside Mark went cold. He wondered what the hell she knew. He swallowed, noticing that his throat was dry and tight. "Huh?" he asked hoarsely, stalling for time, pushing the word past the pure shame that was building inside him. It was one layer of cowardice on another and the deeper he got the more contemptible he found himself. He took Meredith from Derek and he couldn't bring himself to tell Mrs. Shepherd. He hurt . . . fucking _raped_ Meredith. He'd _raped_ her and, after that, he'd let Mrs. Shepherd comfort him. He raped Meredith and he was too afraid to tell his shrink.

"What didn't you tell Mrs. Shepherd about Meredith?" Dr. Wyatt clarified and Mark couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. A cowardly sigh of relief that he hated himself for, but relief that was deep and real.

"She never got to meet her son's new girlfriend," he said, clumsily finding words as he switched from the harder offense to the one that was painfully, shamefully easier. He laughed bitterly. "Because I screwed it all up for him again." He raised an eyebrow. "So what's your analysis?" Deflection always did come too damn easy. "I want Derek Shepherd's life, so I fuck the women he cares about?" He paused for effect, half wishing she'd put a stop to the outpouring of crap; half needing the mocking punch line. "This is where you say, _You tell me_, right?"

Dr. Wyatt disregarded the sarcasm. "That's not how you characterized your feelings for Meredith the last time we talked about her," she said. "You insisted that what you felt for her was real."

And it was. It was the most real he'd ever felt until he wrecked it, and himself and her. "Yeah, well, I was kidding myself," Mark said harshly. "I have to have been, right? Otherwise I --" He broke off and shook his head. Something in him wanted to tell her, but self-protection wouldn't let him.

"What is it you're not telling _me_ about Meredith?"

"Nothing." He tried to make it sound convincing, but even he knew it wasn't working. "_Nothing_!" he repeated, louder, masking desperation with anger.

Dr. Wyatt shifted a little in her chair and sat back. "You carry a lot of guilt about Meredith," she said. "It's obvious whenever you talk about her. It's also obvious that you care about her a great deal. It might help you to tell me what happened between you."

"I hurt her," Mark said, clamping down his feelings. "It's over between us. There's nothing to talk about."

Dr. Wyatt waited a moment, before saying, "I can appreciate that you want to go back to work. I can appreciate that being a surgeon is where you feel you're at your best and you want that back. But even with my recommendation, it's not going to be easy." She paused. "There's a complaint against you for workplace violence, your colleagues may find it difficult to adjust in the early stages. _You_ are going to find it difficult to adjust. So --"

He couldn't take any more. If this went on, he was going to break. So he said the first thing that came into his head. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me here?"

"That's what I'm trying to do," she said patiently. "And I'm telling you if you can't talk to me, here, about issues which I believe are going to derail you, then you have no hope of withstanding the demands of returning to work."

He let out a laugh. "Hadn't you noticed?" he said. "Withstanding . . . demands is what I do. What I've been doing all my life."

"Until you broke down," she said levelly. "Because you needed to, and you will again if you don't --"

"Screw this!" Mark stood up and picked up his bag. A part of him was watching himself, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing; but the other part was out of control and he had to get out of this room. He'd come in here with hope and now all he could see was every fucked-up, poisoned, broken part of himself.

"Dr. Sloan," Dr. Wyatt warned.

But he just shook his head. "Screw this," he repeated and walked out of her office.

* * *

It was the third time that morning Meredith had stood in the bathroom staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Her new hairstyle, which had looked pretty and morale-boostingly different in the salon, was a discouraging mess now that it was just her and a brush and a blow dryer. She tugged at the waves falling just below her ear and willed them to grow long enough that she could pull them into a ponytail, groaning in frustration when they relentlessly sprang back in place.

She almost wanted to cry. It was just hair, and it was stupid, but cutting her hair was supposed to change something and nothing had changed. She felt exactly the same -- the same, only with horrible hair.

With a sigh, she gave up and, trying not to look at her reflection, pushed her way through the door. As she emerged, she practically collided with Lexie.

"Meredith! I mean . . . Dr. Grey."

"Lexie," Meredith acknowledged curtly, side-stepping to make her escape.

"No!" Lexie called out and Meredith stopped, unwillingly, and raised an eyebrow. "I mean . . . I was looking for you." She held out a chart; Meredith didn't reach for it.

Lexie swallowed. "I like your . . . your hair's nice," she said. "Short but --"

Meredith sighed loudly, effectively cutting Lexie off. She didn't want to discuss her hair. She especially didn't want to discuss her hair with Lexie. "Is there something you want?"

Lexie held out the chart towards her again, stretching her arm as far as it would go. "Dr. Fisher needs a resident," she said. "Dr. Bailey assigned me to his service, but apparently he won't work with interns. And Dr. Karev . . ." She trailed off and dropped her voice to a whisper. "He hides from him. He's with Dr. Torres in OR 3. Hiding."

Nobody liked the new (or interim or whatever they styled him) Head of Plastics. Meredith mostly tried not to think about him (along with trying not to think about all the reasons he had his new job). She gave another exaggerated sigh, hoping impatience with Lexie would suppress the prickle of unwanted feelings the subject of Plastics stirred up. "Well, that's good to know," she said. "Dr. Fisher doesn't like interns. Alex doesn't like Dr. Fisher." She deliberately raised an eyebrow again. "What does any of that have to do with me?"

This time Lexie waved the chart, arm stretched out again. "He has a facial scar revision," she said. "At 12.30. He asked for you because you've had . . . well, you used to have . . . " She shrugged helplessly, before blurting out, "You've scrubbed in on a lot of Plastics procedures and he wants someone with experience." Her eyes tried to meet Meredith's, who immediately looked away and there was an awkward silence, until Lexie said tentatively, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what happened to Dr. Sloan . . . and what happened to you and him. You seemed --"

"Lexie!" Meredith broke in. But her voice was softer than she intended, weaker, as a sob lodged in her throat. The urge to cry was back and this time not for hair or the change it failed to bring. The urge to cry was for Mark and herself. And, of course, it always had been. Because they hadn't just _seemed_, they had _been_ . . . they had been every bit what she didn't want to hear Lexie say.

She reached for the chart and took it, noticing her hand shaking as she did so. She tried to ignore it, but Lexie's eyes were focused on the trembling too and. annoyed by the intrusion, she snapped out the first caustic thing that came into her head. "You can say the word _Plastics_ to me, Lexie. I'm not going to break." But there was too much truth in it (too much truth covered by a snarky lie). Maybe a word _couldn't_ break her; but maybe that was only because everything worth breaking was already shattered. She clenched her muscles, trying to stop the shaking and only making it worse.

"Is there anything I can . . .?" Lexie's words ended uncertainly, but they were followed by a light touch on Meredith's arm.

Horrified by the contact, Meredith flinched and drew away. Then she tried to pull herself together. "I have the chart," she said. "You can go now."

"Meredith, are you all right?" Lexie asked shyly, extending her hand again, but pulling it away quickly before it reached Meredith's arm.

Meredith stared at her, wanting to tell her to go away again, but no words would come. Her mind was whirling with past images, past touches, past whispered words of trust and love. Being with him, lying next to him, reaching out for him until --

"Oh God!" The words escaped as though someone else were saying them, as the chart clattered to the floor. She pressed her lips closed, but in her head she kept repeating it: _Oh God! Oh God!_ as floods of adrenaline and fear and fury coursed through her body washing memories to the surface.

"_Because it's just about sex?"_

He was pulling her down, straddling her, pinning her against the bed.

"_Since sex is all I'm good for, I'm sure I can oblige you with that."_

"Meredith?"

Through the fog in her head, she registered Lexie, standing by her, holding a chart and she forced herself back to reality.

She didn't want Lexie here; the last person she wanted was Lexie. "We share some defective DNA," she said cruelly, not caring at all when the younger woman recoiled. "That's all. That doesn't make us sisters. It doesn't even make us friends." She snatched the chart. "I'll find Fisher. Please just go away and leave me alone." And she watched as Lexie swallowed awkwardly, hesitated, then gave up, turned and walked away.

Alone now, Meredith clung tightly to the chart in her hand as though it offered some kind of security. _Fisher. Facial scar revision. _She fumbled with the chart to open it. _Hypertropic scar_. She kept telling herself to go and find Fisher, but somehow she couldn't move, couldn't _make_ herself move however hard she tried. Then it hit her, the realization all this had been leading up to; hit like a physical blow.

He raped her.

He raped her. Mark raped her. _Mark_ raped her.

She let out a little cry, trying to suppress it under her fingers, but unable to quite stop the noise.

"Meredith?" She heard Cristina before she saw her. The voice was instantly comforting; instantly comforting but, at the same time, made everything just a little bit worse because, protected by her friend, the last little fragments of denial gave way. "Lexie said --"

"I . . . he . . . he . . ." Meredith looked into Cristina's eyes, questioning, trying to find the answer. Rationally, she had understood what he had done, but today was the first time she really felt it. She had numbed a part of herself to a betrayal that she had no idea how to take in. Because it was too much; too hard. She had _loved_ this man. She had loved him enough that, despite all the failures of love in her life, she had thought she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. And she understood that he'd had a breakdown; she understood that his life was in pieces; and, rationally, she would still forgive him. But her body didn't know how. Her body had held on to the memories she had tried to cut away with her hair. But she couldn't cut this away. And he was right, Mark had been right: what he did was not forgivable.

"Oh God!" she said again, staring wildly at Cristina.

Slowly, gently, Cristina reached out to stroke Meredith's hair. Just once. Then she took her hand and led her into the nearby on-call room.

Meredith sank down on the bottom bunk, as Cristina closed the door and then leaned up against it.

"So --?"

Meredith shook her head furiously. She still couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. _Mark raped me_. Even now, while her body shook and her mind reeled, she couldn't bear the words to be spoken out loud. She didn't know anymore if she was protecting him, or herself, or her last hope that somewhere there was some kind of love that she could trust. Because she had trusted him. She had trusted him like no one ever before. And it was so hard to expose that to the world, to her friend, to herself most of all as a lie.

She sought out Cristina's eyes. "I'll be fine," she said, willing it to be true. "I just . . . Mark . . ." She trailed off and took a deep breath.

"Did something happen to him?" Cristina asked.

"No. He's fine, I guess. He sent Derek a text . . . something about New York." She'd forgotten the details; she'd barely listened because she'd resolved to move on. "He . . . " Again, her eyes locked with Cristina's as her body tried to make her reveal what her words never, ever would.

Cristina narrowed her eyes, studying her friend's face. "What did he do to you?" she asked. But when Meredith shook her head again, she accepted it as an answer and simply said, "What can I do?"

Meredith inhaled. "Tell me I'll be okay," she said quietly. "Tell me it will all be okay."

"It will all be okay," Cristina repeated, half skeptical, half caring, then added, barely audibly, "I'm sorry I took his side."

Meredith shook her head again. "There aren't any sides in this," she said softly. And there weren't, there was just pain and trying to save herself from it.

Then she stood up and pushed her short hair behind her ears as well as she could. She forced a smile and waved the chart she was still holding onto a couple of times. "Facial scar revision," she said. And when Cristina opened the door and stood back, she went back out into the hallway trying her best to feel like a surgeon.

* * *

Mark let three elevators pass before he decided he couldn't face even the risk that someone he knew might be in there and took the stairs.

Half way between the fourth and third floor, he sank down on the steps, staring at nothing. Self-destructive barely scratched the surface of what he'd just pulled back in Dr. Wyatt's office. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Light footsteps, rapidly climbing the stairs, broke into his thoughts, followed by a stammered, feminine, "Oh . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . I'll just go. I should just . . ." as Mark refocused his eyes in the direction of the sounds and saw Lexie Grey, standing stock-still, huge brown eyes locked with his and somewhere between crying and trying not to.

He opened his mouth to tell her to go away, but then stopped himself. Kindness mattered -- Mrs. Shepherd had shown him that. If he couldn't help himself, maybe he could at least help someone else. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded in a way that said less about being okay and more about trying to reassure herself. "Yes. _Yes_. I'm fine. Really." She sniffed and wiped her nose quickly with the back of her hand. "And _you_!" She sort of smiled. "I should be asking _you_. You're . . ." she paused, struggling for words. "You're here! Everyone was really worried about you. When you . . . " She trailed off, clearly wishing the floor would open up, then rallied with a timidly buoyant, "Welcome back!"

Mark found himself smiling back at her. Her rambling would normally irritate the shit out of him, but today he almost liked it. For a few moments, amusement at Lexie Grey's awkwardness had made him forget about himself. "Thank you," he said. "But I'm a lost cause." Her eyes widened even more and he gave her a lopsided grin to create the impression that he was joking. "Let's talk about you instead, Dr. Grey. Why are you crying in a stairwell?"

"Oh!" She blushed a deep pink. "It's . . . it's nothing. It's just a pressure valve. Sometimes I have to let off . . . pressure, so I come out here." Tears filled her eyes again and she bit her lip, trying not to say anything else, but the words escaped anyway. "She hates me! Meredith hates me and I say the wrong thing and --" She broke off suddenly, then added a soft, "Sorry."

"I can't --" Mark began. _I can't talk to you about Meredith. _Just hearing her name hurt. But he fought against it. Lexie wasn't doing anything wrong; and Meredith, somewhere in this hospital, somewhere leading a life that he couldn't share any more, was a reality he was going to have to deal with. He took a breath, then slid along the step he was sitting on towards the wall. "You want to sit down?"

"No," Lexie said. "No . . . I really shouldn't. I mean, you have . . . you have far worse problems than I do and --" She broke off again, this time clamping a hand over her mouth.

It came as a shock to both of them when Mark began to laugh.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm . . . I'm such an . . . no wonder Meredith hates me." She paused just long enough to breath, before adding, "And you're Mark Sloan. And you're Meredith's _boyfriend_, well, ex-boyfriend, but --" She buried her face in her hands, "Oh, just kill me now!"

Mark pointed to the step. "Sit, Grey," he ordered her and she complied, sinking down and hugging her knees.

"She doesn't hate you," Mark said quietly. "People get screwed up, that's all. They get screwed up and then they do and say stuff they don't mean. Someone just gets in the way and gets hurt." This was getting too close for comfort now and he almost wished he hadn't started. But this girl deserved a little consideration, if only for making him laugh for the first time in what felt like forever. "She and you share --"

"Defective DNA?" Lexie interrupted miserably.

"I was going to say _a father_," Mark said. "But if that works for you . . ." She looked at him and he half smiled. "Meredith said that?" he asked her and, when she nodded, sighed. "Life hurt her, Grey," he said. "It hurt her and it keeps on hurting her." He paused, taking a breath to get past the thought that what kept on hurting her now wasn't so much life but Mark Sloan. "She and you share a father and you saw more of him than she did. She doesn't hate you; she just hates what life did to her and that's where it started."

Lexie gripped the step and leaned forward a little, before she said softly, "He's not . . . my dad's not . . . I mean, he's a good guy. He tries to be. But he's not perfect. He worries and he can't make decisions and, since my mom died, he drinks and sometimes I think he doesn't even like me. He can be difficult. He tries, but he can be difficult, and not just with Meredith." She took a breath. "I just wanted to get to know her. I wanted to get to know my sister. I didn't expect it to be all rainbows and ponies or whatever she thinks it is I want from her." She sighed softly, then shot a cautious glance at Mark. "When you asked me about my family . . .when we were working on the little girl with the burns . . . what happened to you, what happened to you and Meredith was starting then, wasn't it?"

"I can't talk to you about that," Mark said harshly. Finer feelings were one thing; but this, he really couldn't talk about. His stomach sank just thinking about when and how it all started.

"That's okay," she said quietly.

Her understanding made him relent again. "How's she doing?" he asked, changing the subject away from himself and Meredith. "The little girl?"

"Oh, she's great." Lexie smiled broadly. "Social Services are working on her case to find her a foster family. And Dr. Torres checks her fractures every day. And the burns are healing beautifully." She wrinkled her nose. "Even though Dr. Fisher complains about the biosynthetic dressings."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "Fisher?" he asked dryly. "You're telling me Fisher's complaining about my work?" A part of him felt ashamed that he cared; a part of him was just a little bit pleased that he still could.

Lexie swallowed, then said in a voice close to whisper, "He's the acting Head of Plastics."

"He's a goddamn incompetent ass!" Mark erupted, stung that Webber had given his job to the man. "The guy's been marking time for years, doing a half-assed job of procedures that anyone at this hospital should be able to do in their fucking sleep!" Then he realized what he was saying. Fisher was mediocre; but _he_ was a walking disaster as far as Seattle Grace was concerned. "Christ," he muttered sadly, mostly to himself. "I'd take Fisher over me as Head of Plastics any day."

Lexie cleared her throat nervously.

"Sorry, Grey," he said. "That's what you get for talking to psychos in stairwells, I guess."

She smiled and shook her head, but then stood up, brushing down her scrubs. "I should go," she said. "I've taken up enough of your . . . " she glanced doubtfully around the stairwell, but finished the sentence anyway, "time. And I should . . ." She struggled for an excuse, "I should study for my intern exam." With a last quick smile, she stepped onto the downward flight of stairs, but then she turned back. "Meredith cut her hair," she said.

"She . . .?"

"Meredith cut her hair. Short. I mean, it's pretty. It's really pretty. But," she scrunched up her face appraisingly. "It's _short_. Kind of," she ran her hand just under her earlobe, "here. I just thought you should know."

She left then, but Mark didn't really register it. He was remembering the feel of Meredith's hair in his fingers; the sweep of it against his skin; the way it fanned out in messy waves against the pillow; tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that had always been for Addison, until Meredith brushed her cheek against his hand and made it her own.

Dr. Wyatt was right. He knew how to love. He just didn't know how to live up to it. He didn't know how to live up to anything. But he remembered the resolution he'd gone to New York with; he remembered Mrs. Shepherd. And, even if he never got any of it right, he had to make the effort to live up to something now.

* * *

Mark knocked softly. There was a notice on Dr. Wyatt's door that read, 'Session in Progress,' but, now that he'd decided to do this, it couldn't wait.

A few moments passed, while he had to control the urge to knock again, louder this time, or even just walk in, but then the door opened and Dr. Wyatt peered out.

"I have a patient," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow at our appointment." She began to close the door.

"I know." He put his hand against the door to prevent her shutting it, then retracted it, ashamed of the force of the act. "I'm sorry. I just have to do this now."

"Dr. Sloan. I have another patient," she said, but the door remained open.

"Please." He was imploring her now and he didn't even care. "Please, okay? I need this."

She hesitated, then said, "Wait just a moment, please," went back inside her office and shut the door. A few minutes passed before a younger guy came out, looking at the floor as he passed Mark, and then Dr. Wyatt's voice said, "You can come in now, Dr. Sloan."

Inside the room, Mark sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry," he said again. "That was . . . I was out of line. I just . . . " He trailed off. He didn't know how to do this. On the way up here, he'd known what to say. Just walk in her office and tell her straight, _I raped Meredith_. Tell her and deal with the consequences. But now the words wouldn't come. "They gave my job to an asshole," he deflected.

Dr. Wyatt raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Fisher is only the interim Head of Plastics," she said. "Dr. Webber is very clear about that." She paused. "You interrupted my patient's session to tell me _that_?"

"No." Mark swallowed. "I should . . . I'm wasting your time here. I'm . . . " He got up as if to go, then sat down again. Inhaling, he made himself pull it together. Very quietly, eyes fixed on the floor, but making sure every word was clear, he said, "I raped her."

"Meredith?" Dr. Wyatt asked, her voice was soft, serious. When Mark just nodded in response, she added, "Do you want to talk about it?

Mark made himself look at her. "You want to _talk_ about it?" he asked, incredulous at the calmness of her voice. "Shouldn't you be making a call right now? Reporting me?"

"If I were Meredith's doctor. Perhaps," she said. "If Meredith wanted me to. But I'm not. I'm your doctor. And I think it might help you to talk about it."

"I guess it might," Mark said, "if I had anything to say." He swallowed. "I just wanted you to know. You keep telling me that I'm worth something. And I wish to God I was; I wish to God I was the man you seem to think I am. But I'm not. And you need to get that." He closed his eyes, preparing to say the words again. "I raped Meredith."

Dr. Wyatt looked at him searchingly, silent for a few moments, before she said, "We should try to talk about what you were feeling when you . . ." She trailed off. Faltering wasn't the psychiatrist's style. Mark valued that and, not wanting to hear whatever euphemism she was looking for, he supplied:

"Raped Meredith."

She paused, then nodded, conceding the word. "Sometimes patients suffering from severe trauma act out reactions in the present to events that occurred in the past."

Mark shook his head. "Don't say that," he pleaded, half angry, half desperate. "Don't make it forgivable. It's not fucking forgivable. There's no fucking excuse, so let's not pretend there is one." He pressed his eyes closed and inhaled. "I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to go this way. I need to work with you. I know that. But . . ." He shook his head again. "I hadn't even remembered by then. It was just dreams and images in my head. Nothing I could get a handle on. And trust me," he almost laughed, "I'd take an excuse if I could get one. But I wasn't acting out a reaction. I felt stuff, yeah . . . I got confused. But I knew it was Meredith. I knew damn well it was Meredith."

Again, there was a brief silence. Then Dr. Wyatt asked, "Tell me what happened."

"It doesn't matter." But the psychiatrist waited and eventually Mark made himself say, "She wanted sex. I'd told her no. I was tired and screwed up and . . . she wanted sex." He shrugged. It was such an inadequate gesture, but it was all he had to show how little he understood himself. "She touched me and I lost it and . . ." He buried his face in his hands. "Please don't make me tell you what I did to her," he whispered, then lost himself in memories. "She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman I've ever been with. It was . . . with her it was different. Sex was different. Her body was . . . " He wanted to cry, but he couldn't let himself. The last time he'd cried, he'd cried for her and he wasn't going to diminish that by crying for himself. "She was beautiful and I . . ." He couldn't give more words to this. There were no words that came close to what he felt about himself, about Meredith, about what he'd done. Dropping his hands in his lap, he looked up again. "I raped her," he said, defeated. "There's nothing else to say and there are no excuses for that."

"I understand that you think that," Dr. Wyatt said slowly. "I understand why. But you're a survivor of sexual abuse; and _I_ think, when you turned on Meredith, you were starting to remember your past."

"No," Mark insisted. "I _knew _it was Meredith. I just . . ." He winced against anguish of his own thoughts. He didn't want to talk about his mother: she provided the excuse he didn't want; and, deeper than that, it was just too painful. But the thoughts kept coming and somehow words followed. "I could never stop her. There was nothing I could do and no one was ever there to help me. I would lie there and I'd pretend to be asleep but nothing would ever fucking stop her. And _he_ . . . my _father . . ._" He spat the word. "I _told_ him. I tried to tell him and that fuck just played golf, and went to work and screwed whatever skanky bitch he'd picked up that night . . ." he took a shaky breath, then lowered his voice, "while his wife got off with a little kid. And you know the worst part?" There was something he'd never been able to admit, not even to himself. He knew as an adult, as a doctor, it was just a physiological response, but somehow that didn't make any difference. Maybe if he told the shrink and she accepted it, like she was accepting everything else, he'd be able to let it go. "The worst part is, before I knew what she was doing, I liked it. She wasn't the only one who got off." He swallowed, half swamped in shame, half relieved that he'd finally said it all.

There was no response from Dr. Wyatt. At first, Mark was grateful, but as the silence persisted, he grew uncomfortable. "You going to say anything?" he mumbled.

"When it's appropriate," she said quietly. She twisted around in her chair and reached over to the desk, where she retrieved the envelope of pictures Mark had left behind. "Have you looked at these?" she asked.

Mark shook his head, then bowed it and took a deep breath.

Pulling the pictures out, she leafed through them, and then returned all but one to the envelope, sliding it carefully onto the coffee table.

"Don't make me look at that," he begged her softly. "I don't . . . I can't . . . I can't look at him." His heart rate began to rise again. His own pain was bad enough; he didn't want to feel that little kid's.

"Just take a look. If it's too hard, we needn't continue," Dr. Wyatt said. She picked up the photo again and held it out towards him.

Moments passed before Mark could so much as draw his hand closer and tentatively touch the edge of the paper.

"Just take a look," Dr. Wyatt encouraged him.

Finally, he made himself take it and look at it for a second.

He had a dim memory of the picture. It was one of those school things you're supposed to take home to your parents. He guessed he'd given it to Mrs. Shepherd instead.

"What do you want me to do with this?" he asked, trying to distance himself from the feelings that were welling up inside him.

She considered. He thought she might be about to say _You tell me_ and hoped like hell she wouldn't because he couldn't take that right now. But she took a breath and said in slow, measured words, "I want you to ask yourself whether he deserved what happened to him. I want you to ask yourself whether anybody would ever say this child was only good for sex. And I understand that you don't want to be excused for what you did to Meredith. And you're right – as an adult, you're right. But I want you to try to see it from his point of view. He just wanted to protect himself from something that should never, ever have happened to him." She paused. "And then I want you to try to see that this child is you."

She opened her notebook and began to read, making short notes, giving Mark space. At first, he just took quick glimpses at the picture, then he held it steady and forced himself to look properly. The kid was blond and young and innocent looking. He was smiling into the camera, sort of, but his eyes had this tired, haunted look that he seemed to be trying to cover up with a kind of mischievous daring. "How does someone do that to a kid?" he asked softly. He felt something; he couldn't deny that. He let his hand trail briefly over the image. "You should've told Mrs. Shepherd, buddy. She would've helped you." He paused, self-conscious that he was talking out loud, but the words went on in his head._ Hey, maybe if you'd told someone, you'd be living in New York with some cute girl you'd dated since college with kids of your own, huh? Maybe Derek and Addison would still be married. Maybe you'd even have met Meredith and managed not to fuck up her life._ Then something in the kid's eyes got to him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm . . . " This was bullshit. He was trying to apologize as though they were separate people. But the kid was him. It was so hard to feel that, but this kid was _him_. He looked up from the photograph and cleared his throat softly to get Dr. Wyatt's attention. "He . . ." He swallowed. "_I_ just wanted her to love me. Sex was all that was on offer, though."

After a moment's pause, Dr. Wyatt exhaled. "Good," she said. "You've done good work here today, Dr. Sloan." She paused. "I'd like to suggest that you try and get some rest now. When you come back for tomorrow's session, we can talk about your return to work."

Mark shook his head. "You were right," he said. "I'm not ready." Then some bright colors against the wall caught his eye. "You got fish," he said, peering into the water to watch the tropical fish swimming there, grateful for the distraction while he tried to get his head around the offer she had just made.

"I've had them for two years," Dr. Wyatt said, the corners of her mouth turning up with a kind of knowing amusement.

"I never noticed before," Mark said.

"I guess you didn't," she replied, slightly teasing, leaving it up to him to get the point.

He met her eyes tentatively. "You really think I could go back to work?"

She nodded. "It will be on a probationary basis to begin with," she said. "With limited duties. And you'll have to keep up with therapy and, obviously, you still have to see your oncologist. But yes. I think you could start work."

"What about Meredith?" Mark asked quietly. "You think she'll be able to handle it?" He swallowed, ashamed of what he was about to ask next, but needing to say it. "You think I will?"

Dr. Wyatt considered. "I think it will be hard," she said. "On both of you. But you're ready." She gave an encouraging smile. "You take responsibility and you move forward."

Mark almost laughed. "Take responsibility and move forward, huh? I wouldn't call either of those my strong suits." He shrugged. "I guess things can change, though."

"I think they already have," she said, then added softly. "And I think you underestimate yourself."

Mark felt the warmth rise in his chest. This time, he let himself hold onto it.

* * *

Walking through the hospital felt strange -- partly like an adventure, partly like an ordeal. Mark knew people were looking at him. He tried not to return the looks, but couldn't help being drawn by the surreptitious glances from nurses as they whispered behind their hands, then flashed awkwardly false, brilliant smiles as he caught their eyes.

Like Dr. Wyatt said, it was going to be difficult. This was just the beginning. It hardly registered on the scale of what was going to come.

Reaching OR2, where Derek was operating, he walked up to the gallery and was relieved when the only person in there was a guy from Lexie Grey's year, surrounded by books and post-its, presumably studying for his exam. The intern did a double take, then scrambled to gather the bits of stationery that fell to the floor.

Mark didn't know whether to be disturbed or amused by the performance. But he dealt with it and, leaning against the wall, asked, "You, uh . . . studying going okay?" It sounded pathetic, but he gave himself credit that he was trying at all.

The intern nodded nervously, while Mark scratched his ear, then pointed down at the OR. "I just came to watch Shepherd," he said, then added, "You interested in Neuro?"

The intern gulped and Mark let them both off the hook by muttering, "Never mind." Then, to his relief, Derek looked up into the gallery, raising an eyebrow above his mask and following that with a smile that showed in his eyes.

Taking that as a good sign, Mark sat down and let out the breath he'd been holding. Pretending to watch the procedure, Mark went over and over the question he wanted to ask Derek. _Did you mean that?_ Did he mean what he said in his voicemail? _You're my brother. I care about you._ He wasn't expecting anything; he would understand (more than understand) if Derek didn't feel that way now that he was back in Seattle. But, God, it would be good if he had a friend.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the plastic seat. He was scared shitless, but it still felt kind of good to be around an OR. He found himself drifting into a kind of half-waking sleep. And it was okay. There were images, but he could stop them. He thought about Mrs. Shepherd or Dr. Wyatt's faith in him or even how it felt to sit and talk to Lexie Grey. And it was okay. When he opened his eyes again, he felt more in control than he had in a long time.

Derek was finishing up the procedure now and Mark got up and went downstairs to wait for him.

"You get my text?" he asked when Derek came out, stalling before he asked the question he really wanted the answer to.

"_In New York. Your mom says hi_? That text?" Derek smirked dryly, but his eyes smiled again and that gave Mark hope. "I got it. I don't pretend to understand it. But, yes, I got it."

Mark glanced down at the ground. A response was required, something that would make them both comfortable by keeping up the pretence at banter. But all that would come out was, "D'you mean that? Your voicemail? What you said?"

He couldn't make himself look up again until Derek swallowed and said, "Yes, I meant it."

Derek laid a hand on his arm and Mark let out a sigh of relief. Then the door to OR1 opened and the moment was broken by the loud voice of Dr. Fisher.

"You're quite talented. You should consider specializing in Plastics. I think you'd find it rewarding. People don't come to us to fix what's on the outside, Dr. Grey, they come to us to fix what's on the inside."

"Isn't that your line?" Derek joked awkwardly and some part of Mark was grateful for the solidarity. But his focus wasn't on Derek or Fisher. All he could see or think about was Meredith.

At first, she didn't notice him. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Under her scrub cap, Mark couldn't really see the short hair, but he could see her eyes and they drove a chasm through his heart.

"Dr. Grey," he said hoarsely, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to leave her there without saying something.

"Dr. Sloan," she said. It wasn't cold, it wasn't hurt, it wasn't _anything_. Just vacant. And that blankness, from Meredith, told him everything he needed to know. He glanced at the ground again, giving her the opportunity to get away and, when he looked up, her back was retreating into OR1 and he overhead an excuse about "scrub nurses" and "instructions."

"Dr. Sloan," Fisher said, the greeting a combination of nerves and a kind of triumph.

Mark just nodded.

"Are you all right?" Derek asked, as Fisher walked away. The question was uncomfortable (it always would be where Meredith was involved), but it was genuine.

Mark shrugged. "I'm . . . moving forward," he said. "Taking responsibility." He didn't really believe it yet, but he didn't have a choice: he pushed through this or he went under. "I'm all right . . . yeah." And even though smiling was the last thing he felt like doing, he made himself smile at Derek.

* * *

_Title song: __**Fall Away**__, _The Fray

_You swear you recall nothing at all  
That could make you come back down  
You made up your mind to leave it all behind  
Now you're forced to fight it out_

_You fall away from your past  
But it's following you_


	18. How My Thoughts They Spin Me 'Round

Chapter 18 – How My Thoughts They Spin Me 'Round

"Dr. Sloan!" Richard Webber stood up behind his desk, his smile a bit too wide and slightly fixed.

"Chief," Mark replied. He hadn't spoken out loud since his therapy session the previous afternoon. And now, at 7.00 a.m., his voice came out hoarse with underuse, phlegm and anxiety. He cleared his throat, lingering in the office doorway, desperately fighting the urge to look down at the floor and away from the Chief's tactful, uneasy curiosity.

This was so fucking hard. Mark felt like a fraud just putting on dark blue scrubs and a lab coat; standing in this office and acting like he was supposed to be there was close to impossible.

"It's good to have you back," Richard said uncomfortably.

_Yeah_? Mark thought, panicking a little as it crossed his mind to give up now and give in to the urge to yell, _You get that I'm a wreck you should fire my ass before I go out there and kill someone, or break down and cry like a girl in the corner of the OR, right? _But he got a grip and said, "It's good to _be_ back . . . " tacking on a "sir," as an afterthought, his stomach sinking with each next awkward word.

"All right then." Richard nodded and motioned towards the chairs in front of his desk, lowering himself into his own chair, as Mark slowly made his way from the doorway and sat down. "So . . . " Richard put on his reading glasses, then picked up a sheaf of official-looking, pastel colored papers and straightened them against the desk "You understand," he peered over the frames of his glasses, "in an ideal world, I'd let you get back to some kind of routine before putting you through this. But I have responsibilities to -- " He broke off, frowning. "We'll get on to that in a moment. How are you doing, Dr. Sl-- . . . Mark? Your psychiatrist tells me you've made excellent progress with the, uh . . . C-PTSD."

"The . . . ?" Mark narrowed his eyes, not understanding. He and Dr. Wyatt had never discussed any kind of formal psychiatric diagnosis and, for a moment, he wondered what the hell the Chief was talking about. But it figured; it was a good euphemism; and, honestly, he didn't have the energy or the courage for any kind of rocking the boat. So he just cleared his throat again and said, "Yes . . . sir. Dr. Wyatt's a pretty good shrink." Then, suddenly wanting to be honest with this man he never really knew where he stood with, but who was giving him a second chance, added, "I mean . . . it's . . ." He scratched his ear, buying time while he found the right words. "I have a long way to go. But Dr. Wyatt and I went over everything and I feel like this is a good time for me to start work again."

The Chief scanned his face. "You understand there are conditions to your coming back to work? Limited duties, continuing assessment of your fitness. You're essentially on probation, although the Board has allowed me some leniency based on your seniority and track record. It's not exactly the _no speaking, no touching _rule we've imposed on other doctors in a similar position. And you're already under psychiatric care. But --"

"Whatever you need," Mark broke in. He wanted his job back and he would do anything, jump through any hoops, do whatever they asked of him. It was another thing that was going to be hard, but if that's what it took . . . well, that's what it took. He didn't exactly have a choice, anyway.

"There's also the matter of the complaint against you." Richard sighed wearily, separating a blue and white section from the papers and waving it towards Mark.

"Jason Rooney," Mark read, reluctantly taking the papers. "That the guy I punched?" It wasn't a surprise: Dr. Wyatt had warned him this was coming. _You take responsibility and you move forward, _she'd said, and Mark kept turning the words over in his mind. "He's suing me, right?"

"Oh, trust me -- you, and the hospital, and me personally if his attorney could find a reason," Richard said, allowing a trace of irritation to creep into his voice. "But this turned out to be one of the few occasions where the nurse mediator was more than just a thorn in my side. Apparently, Mr. Rooney has a reputation around the hospital for provoking . . . shall we say, negative attention. Perhaps nothing quite as dramatic as the negative attention he got from you, but . . ."

"Sorry," Mark muttered as he relived losing it outside the hospital: before, during and, gut-wrenchingly after. "I was . . . " _Having a bad day_. But everyone knew that particular understatement by now and, anyway, this discussion was about the unforgiving real world, not Mark's feelings. "He was . . . " _He treated Meredith like a . . . _He couldn't complete the thought, didn't want to think about Jason Rooney putting his hands on her, badmouthing her because she decided to go home to the man who said he loved her, but ended up following one humiliation with another a thousand fucking times worse. He swallowed, trying to get enough denial together to go on with the meeting. "I'm sorry, sir."

The Chief studied him for a moment. "Call me Richard," he said, his voice a little dry, but kind. "The _sir_ doesn't suit you." He raised an eyebrow and smiled, waiting for Mark to catch up with the gentle sarcasm and, when he couldn't, added, "I think today is probably the first time you've called me _sir_ without a smirk on your face."

Understanding, at last, through the cloud of Meredith and shame, and wanting to seem appreciative of a gesture that he wasn't sure he entirely trusted but, right now, meant more to him than the Chief would probably ever suspect he was capable of, Mark managed a soft snort through his nose.

"As I was saying," Richard went on. "The nurse mediator and Rooney's supervisor convinced him not to sue. We'll be paying him a fixed sum in compensation and, on top of that, the Board wants --"

"I really am sorry," Mark could help interrupting, knowing perfectly well how useless it was, but needing to say it again.

Richard held up his hand. "You might want to save that for later. There's a condition to this deal. One you're not going to like. One that, honestly, I don't like. But the Board has made a non-negotiable demand that you comply with it."

* * *

Callie rolled her eyes. "Page Plastics, Grey," she said to Lexie. "They need to get a look at those lacs on her face." She shook her head, full of sympathy for the woman lying sedated in the bed in front of her. "God, this sucks. I hate domestic violence cases. And Fisher's so . . . " She shrugged meaningfully. "You know."

"Abrupt?" Lexie muttered, as she input the code. "Lacking in bedside manner?" She swallowed and glanced at Callie, then whispered, "Assish?"

"You too?" Callie laughed. "What'd he do to you?"

"I'm over-involved with my patients," Lexie said. "He doesn't like it that I joke with Lauren when we check the burns on her legs. Apparently, it's unprofessional to make friends with a scared ten-year-old girl without a family."

"Ass," Callie agreed, and Lexie nodded vigorously. "Where did he come from anyway? He was just this quiet guy doing nose jobs or whatever, and now he's all smarmy-ass hand-shaking and _I'm the new . . . excuse me, interim_," she mimicked Dr. Fisher's unpleasantly silky voice, smiling when Lexie giggled, "_Head of Plastics_, and trying to buy you drinks at Joe's." She shuddered. "Euuurgh! Just . . . God, get better Mark and come back and kick the ass's ass!"

As soon as she said Mark's name, she felt a familiar pang in her chest. She knew she'd done the right thing telling Derek about Mark; she knew she'd been a good friend _then_. It was just what she'd done _before _she told Derek. Because, seriously, who the hell hits on their friend -- and not just their friend, their _patient_, for God's sake -- when he's injured and breaking down in their exam room? Who _does_ that?! She glanced sheepishly at Lexie Grey and, feeling heat building from her neck to her face, and needing an outlet, started talking again, without really thinking.

"Are Psych sending someone down here for her, or what?"

"They said as soon as they can. But the on-call psychiatrists are both dealing with emergency admissions right now, and . . . " Lexie trailed off and caught Callie's eye nervously, before blurting, "I saw him!"

"Huh?"

"I saw Dr. Sloan. A few days ago. I talked to him. I just thought . . . I mean, you're friends. And you . . ." Her voice became quieter as she lost the initial burst of confidence. "You were talking about him, so . . . "

"You saw Mark?" Callie's eyes widened, as her heart leapt and her stomach sank at the same time. "Like, here? In the hospital? Walking around?"

"More sitting on the stairs, actually," Lexie squirmed. "He was on the stairs and I was . . . " she shook her head, "never mind. He seemed okay. I mean, he seemed tired and kind of sad. But he just got out of the Psych ward, right? So --" She broke off as, after a brief glance to check on the patient, Callie ushered her forcefully out of the room and into the hallway.

"Can I tell you something?" Callie said in an urgent whisper, waiting for Lexie to nod before she went on. "I mean . . . can I tell you something bad? 'Cause I don't have anyone else to tell. I can't tell Cristina, 'cause, you know . . . Meredith, and that's a whole other shitstorm. And normally, I'd tell Mark . . . except, well . . . I can't exactly do that now, when he's all screwed up, and it's about him. And I have to get past this before he comes back. Because I need to be his friend, you know? I mean . . . if he still wants me to." She swallowed guiltily. "Oh, God, Grey. I did something really bad."

"Oh?" Lexie stammered. "I'm sure it wasn't . . . it couldn't have been anything really --"

"I hit on him. I freaking hit on him. In the exam room, before you came in with his films, about five minutes before his whole life fell apart." She shook her head. "I freaking _hit_ on him. And then, after that, I didn't know . . . I didn't know if he'd want me up there, so I didn't even go and visit him in Psych. I didn't ask after him or . . . " She sighed. "See what I mean about doing something bad?"

Inside the room, the patient groaned, snapping Callie out of her panic. "We'll need to keep an eye on her meds," she said. But as Lexie nodded and turned to go back through the doorway, she touched her arm to stop her. "Thank you, Grey," she said. "That was," she smiled wryly, "inappropriate to say the least. But I needed to tell someone. So . . ." She shrugged. "Thank you."

Lexie paused for a moment, then said softly. "I don't have anyone to tell things to either. That's how I ended up talking to Dr. Sloan." She gave a little, frantic laugh. "Confiding in the ex-boyfriend of the half-sister who hates me, when his problems made mine look like the best day I ever had. So," she wrinkled her nose understandingly, "I get it. And, if it helps, he didn't say anything bad about you. He didn't say anything bad about anyone. Well, except Dr. Fisher. But I think we've already agreed he's an . . ." She twitched an eyebrow, waiting for Callie.

"Ass," they both said at the same time.

* * *

Meredith was working.

Since the facial scar revision with Dr. Fisher three days ago, she had worked as much as she could. Until she stumbled home at night, or in the morning, or half way through the day, depending when her shift ended, fell into bed, and slept until she started work again.

She was working and, so far, the plan was going well; a lot better than the other plans she'd tried (the stupid ones where trying to forgive Mark or cutting her hair were supposed to change everything).

Work was better than haircuts, better than tequila, better than almost confiding in Alex or confiding without confiding in Cristina. Work was not thinking and not feeling about anything other than work.

"Page Plastics to take a look at these burns, Grey," Dr. Bailey muttered, moving around the patient's bed, shaking her head. The patient was a twenty-five year old man who had driven his car into a utility pole. "Then we'll need to get an MRI to . . . "

The rest of words were lost as Meredith reached for her pager, not realizing that the sigh she let out was audible and not just in her head, until Dr. Bailey's kind, concerned eyes rested on her.

"I don't think they'll send Dr. Sloan up yet," Bailey reassured her, reading her mind. "He's going to be with the Chief for at least a couple of hours." She smiled and rolled her eyes. "No doubt we'll have the pleasure of Dr. Fisher's company."

No one was supposed to know that Mark was coming back today. But the Chief had given Dr. Bailey a heads-up, and she, tactfully, let Meredith know. Which she was grateful for. At least, she guessed she was. She guessed that it was better not to be surprised. A part of her, though, would have maybe liked a few more hours when work was still her sanctuary. Just for her. Because once was okay; seeing him once outside that OR had been okay. But every day? Every freaking day? She pressed her eyes closed for a moment, and inhaled. Working, just _working_ could deal with anything. Even this.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

She forced the corners of her mouth upwards, raising an eyebrow at Dr. Bailey, trying desperately to be normal. "Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll send Alex," she said, inputting the code.

* * *

"So how did it go with the Chief?" Derek sat down on the bench next to Mark and slid a cup of coffee along the slatted seat.

Mark nodded his thanks, picked up the cup and pulled off the lid to cool it quicker, then took a quick, cautious sip.

It was turning out to be a nice day. 9.15 and fluffy little clouds were scattered around in a pale blue sky. If Mark believed in omens, he would have taken the weather as a good one. He'd been out here a while now, breathing the air, relaxing into the faint morning warmth of the sun.

He felt something like okay. He'd gotten through the first part: signed the forms, agreed to the conditions and . . . yeah, pretty much, as far as _okay_ meant anything anymore, he was okay.

_You take responsibility and you move forward_.

He took a deep breath, allowing his lungs to expand against the tension in his body. There was a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch night after night (because his bedroom was still impossible, and the guestroom was too lonely) and he bent his neck one way then the other, trying to work out the stiffness. "Fine, I guess," he said, then took another, longer swig of coffee.

Derek was the first person he'd talked to since leaving the Chief's office. So far the day was working out well that way. He wasn't sure how to deal with people, or how they'd deal with him, and he figured the best way was to try to act as normal as possible. Right now, though, the act needed a little kick-start, and he was glad it was happening with Derek.

"He reinstated you?"

"Yeah. Kind of."

"Well, that's good," Derek said, adding an "Oh . . ." almost to himself as he reached inside his lab coat pocket and pulled out a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "I thought you might be hungry," he said, holding the sandwich out to Mark.

Taking it uncertainly, Mark eyed the label. "Tuna fish?"

"Brain food." Derek smiled broadly.

"Tuna fish at," Mark glanced at his watch, "9.18 in the morning?"

Derek shrugged. "I'm making an assumption you didn't eat breakfast. And tuna fish is what they had ready-made."

Mark swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat. It was dumb: it was only a sandwich; a sandwich he didn't even want. But it touched him that Derek was thinking about him. "Thanks," he mumbled, trying to make it sound a little bit heartfelt before he went back to the safety of bitching. "But my stomach's only been good for like five days now. And you want me to eat Seattle Grace tuna? For breakfast?" He breathed a soft, dry laugh out through his nose. "I'm pretty sure one of the conditions of my parole is not puking on my patients."

"You're underweight and you need to eat," Derek insisted, then asked, "Richard set a lot of conditions?"

"I can do consults," Mark said. "And basic medical procedures. And teach _interns _to do basic medical procedures. Which I think translates to stitching up cuts." He gave another soft laugh. "Remember Radonich? Our intern year?"

Derek narrowed his eyes briefly, thinking back, then laughed too. "The ancient attending they let stand in the back of the room because he'd once been some kind of hot shot?" He smiled. "God, yes. The residents would let him say his piece and then totally ignore him."

"Right." Mark gave a sardonic smile. "I have a feeling that's what 'consults' means. I get to stand in the back of the room because I used to be Mark Sloan, and Fisher gets to ignore me."

"Well, you have your job back," Derek said. "I'm sure it's only temporary."

Mark swallowed. This was the really difficult one. "And I have to make a formal apology to the ass I punched in the face. 4.00 p.m. today, in the Chief's office."

Derek paused, then measured his words as he said, "It's preferable to a lawsuit. "That could've gone very badly for you." He took a sip of his coffee, then pointed to the sandwich. "Eat your breakfast."

"Jesus! Yes, mom!" Mark rolled his eyes and began to dig his thumb into the plastic wrapper with mocking compliance. Then he realized what he'd said. It was just a reflex; just words. If he'd meant _anything_ by it other than just something you said, it was teasing Derek about being like Mrs. Shepherd. But . . . shit! Shit! His eyes briefly met Derek's; both of them frozen, embarrassed and not knowing where to look. Until Derek ran a hand over his face, hiding his eyes at first; but when his hand reached his mouth, it just stayed there, sort of clamped. Then, over the top of his fingers, his eyes met Mark's a second time: they were smiling, watering a little, and from under his palm, a muffled laugh erupted.

Mark felt his face almost burning with shame. "Shit, I didn't mean . . ."

Derek nodded his head, trying to make his expression serious and understanding, then helplessly spluttered out another laugh. "I'm sorry," he said again, trying to straighten his face. "I'm not taking it lightly. Really. It's just . . ." He broke down in a bout of wild laughter that he didn't seem able to control.

Then, from nowhere, it infected Mark. He chuckled quietly at first, then it built and built until neither of them could stop. It was almost hysterical; a reaction to absolute dismay that had to go somewhere and chose this outwardly insane route. But God, whatever it was, whatever was underneath it, laughing felt so fucking good! It was a release; like a really good therapy session. And for a while, as their laughter finally subsided and they wiped their eyes, Mark felt almost as confident as he'd been trying to make out he was.

"You're handling this incredibly well, you know," Derek said. "You've always been a survivor. I guess I never understood quite how true that was. But you've always been a survivor. It's something I . . . I admire you for. I should have told you that before." And," he gave a small shrug, "you're handling this incredibly well."

"Yeah?" Mark asked softly. Derek nodded. "That's good. 'Cause that's what I want people to think. Thing is, though - I'm not. I mean . . . I will be. I _think_. It's just . . ." He groaned. "I'm scared shitless, Derek."

"You'll be fine." Derek said. "Just take each day as it comes and --"

"I'm sitting here complaining about consults and stitching up cuts. But it's bullshit. I'm so grateful they're letting me back it's pathetic. And, honestly, I don't know if I can even suture without screwing it up."

"You'll be _fine_," Derek repeated. "You can do sutures in your sleep."

"Yeah?"

Derek nodded.

Mark pulled half the sandwich out of its wrapper and took a bite. Probably, if he chewed slowly, he could eat it without messing up his stomach too badly. Derek bought it for him and he wanted to show that it mattered.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Mark working on the sandwich, and it was almost comfortable. Comfortable enough for Mark to risk the question that had been somewhere on his mind all morning. "You think she'll be okay with me starting back at work?"

For a long, drawn-out moment, Derek said nothing. Then, quietly, "She knows. Bailey told her. There wasn't an announcement. In case you . . . " His voice trailed off awkwardly.

"Chickened out?"

Derek shrugged an agreement. "Although, I think the official wording would be something closer to 'out of respect for your privacy'. And, no. She won't be okay with it. How could she be?" His voice came out a little harshly and he closed his eyes briefly before he spoke again in a gentler tone. "But she has a job to do and so do you, and there's no reason for her to be on your service." He paused. "Are you okay with it?"

"No," Mark mumbled, looking down. "I'm just hoping it'll get . . ." he wanted to say _easier_, but that wasn't exactly a word you could apply to him and Meredith, "less . . ." _heartbreaking _"difficult. And then, maybe when . . . if I get back up to speed and the restrictions have been lifted for a while . . . I was thinking I might go back to New York. I was thinking that might --"

A vibration against the waistband of his scrub pants and a shrill, blaring beep nearly made Mark jump out of his skin. Dropping the remains of the sandwich on the bench and spilling coffee from the cup in his hand until Derek, almost unnoticed, took it away from him, he fumbled for his pager and read the code. "They're paging me," he said, stating the obvious, except that this was so far from ordinary for him it needed saying to make it real. "Room 2251." His heart was racing, and he put his hand on his chest trying to steady it, as he took a deep breath. "I should . . ." He stood up and glanced anxiously at Derek. "I should go, right? I mean . . . this is a real page?"

Derek stood up too. "Yes, they're paging you," he said, deliberately calm. "You should go. You'll be fine." He smiled. "Welcome back, Dr. Sloan."

* * *

Outside Room 2251, Mark waited a moment, trying to slow his breathing after his sprint up the stairs. (He still couldn't make himself go in the elevator -- not even when Derek offered to go with him.) It hadn't done anything for his anxiety, except probably make it more obvious to everyone who saw him. But at least he hadn't run into anyone he knew well.

Callie was inside the patient room with Lexie Grey, their backs towards him.

Jesus, Callie! He'd almost forgotten about the last time he saw her, and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear the new onslaught of emotions as he remembered trying to push his tongue inside her mouth in a last, misguided attempt at clinging on to sanity. _You take responsibility and you move forward_, he thought, vowing to find some way to apologize to her. But later. Now, he just had to get through this and try to do it right.

He leaned lightly against the doorframe and cleared his throat softly. "You needed a Plastics consult?" he said, somehow managing to pull off a lazy sounding drawl that was the exact opposite of everything he felt.

The silence that greeted him for a moment was so complete, Mark was certain everyone could hear his heart beating. Then Callie turned around, staring at him with huge, wide eyes. "You're . . . ?" she stammered.

"Hey, Torres," he said, swallowing past the panic.

"Mark." Her voice was softer than he thought he'd ever heard it, and her expression something between smiling and looking like she was about to cry. "You're . . . " She shook her head, as if not quite believing her eyes, then took a deep breath and said in a voice that was closer to normal, "you're not Karev."

Mark managed to twitch an eyebrow and half smirk. "When I last checked."

Lexie Grey was smiling at him from behind Callie. "Dr. Grey," he said and (who the hell knew where it came from, but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth) winked. _You take responsibility and you move forward _played on repeat in his mind, as Callie started talking again, a little too rapidly.

"'Cause, see, Fisher was here. To look at her face." She pointed to the patient, "And he's all _she just needs stitches_ and _you seriously paged me for a few cuts?! _and _I'll send someone whose time is less valuable _--" She broke off abruptly, closing her eyes in embarrassment, while Lexie winced.

"Well," Mark said, playful but letting a little regret show through, "that would be me I guess." A part of him was hurt by Callie's words, but it was what it was. Fisher's time was, right now, more valuable than his to Seattle Grace. Although, even from over by the door, and just with a cursory look, he suspected that Fisher's assessment of the lacerations as _a few cuts_ was missing something.

"Sorry," Callie said. "Are you okay?"

"Getting there, Cal," Mark said, trying to brush the question off without brushing _her_ off. "Want to show me the patient?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. It's just . . . " She gave him a pleading look. "Are we . . . ? I mean, are we --?" She stopped herself, nodding and saying, "Patient," decisively, and picked up the chart. "So this is Anna." She indicated the woman lying sedated in the bed. "Anna David. Thirty-one. Fractures of the left clavicle, right wrist, radial head and ulna. Some minor neck contusions and sternal bruising." She sighed. "And then there's her face."

Mark approached the bed. "What happened to her?" He motioned for the chart.

"Her boyfriend happened to her," Callie said dryly. "That's why we have her sedated."

"A guy did this to her?" Mark asked quietly, trying but failing to ignore the images of Meredith that flared up inside his head.

"Yeah, he did," Callie sighed.

Mark tried to hand the chart back, unable to focus on the patient as panic rose inside him again. "I don't think you want me on this case," he said. "I don't think she needs to wake up and see" _another abusive asshole _"some guy leaning over her dabbing at her face."

"There aren't any women in Plastics," Lexie said tentatively. "Well, you know that, of course. They work for you . . . well they did . . . before . . ." She blushed, then smiled. "And they will again, I'm sure. You'll --"

"You don't need a plastic surgeon for this," Mark interrupted. "If you did, Fisher wouldn't've paged _me_." Although, God -- you kind of needed someone who knew it was more than a basic stitching job! But that was another battle, for another day. Maybe. If he ever got that far. "Grey here could do it," he said, then turned to Lexie. "You need to wait a couple of hours before you suture, though. Cleanse her face with sterile saline solution, then prep the wounds with Betadine and leave it until you start to see reduction in the swelling." He thought for a second. "You got her on morphine for the fractures?" he asked Callie, and she nodded. "Otherwise, you'd need to give her a shot of lidocaine, Grey, 'cause these . . . " He peered more closely at the patient's face, then shook his head, concerned. "Scratch that. These are nasty and they're gonna hurt like a bitch. When you go in, you might need to deep suture one or two first. So," he checked the chart for allergy information, but figured they hadn't gotten that far. "If she's having pain, unless she has a known, allergy, give her 1mg of lidocaine 1% at the edge of each lac as you work on it. That's it, I guess. Except . . ." he ran a hand over his jaw as he considered, "use an absorbable suture, and stick to a simple, interrupted stitch if possible, to maximize smooth closure. And," he turned to Callie again, "start decreasing sedation to a level where she can interact with Grey."

Lexie nodded as she memorized each next instruction. But Callie shook her head briefly and put a hand on Lexie's arm to stop her. "See, that's why we need you," she said to Mark. "I told Fisher it was more than a just a few cuts. And you . . . I mean, you're _you_. She's lucky to have you here to fix her up."

"You wouldn't say that if . . . " Mark inhaled. "She's vulnerable. She doesn't need some --"

"I would," Callie broke in, impatient and clearly concerned. "I get that it's your first day back, but I _would_ say that. Whatever it is. Because to Anna, you're not a guy. You're a doctor. The doctor who's gonna fix her face so well she can go back out there and find herself a better boyfriend. Or get that she doesn't need a boyfriend. Or . . . seriously, Mark! How many domestic violence cases have you seen in your career? You know, just . . . do your damn job!" She glanced at Lexie, who was pretending to study the floor, then looked back at Mark with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan. I was out of line. For that and," she sort of squirmed on the spot, "for that, and the other thing, when you . . . and I . . . you know. I was way out of line."

Mark was trying to let it all sink in. He couldn't get past the comparison between himself and the guy who beat up the patient but, as Callie spoke, he began to talk himself into seeing this as making some kind of amends. If this patient knew who he was and what he'd done, he was certain she wouldn't want his hands on her. But Callie was right: he was the best person to work on her face. "Do my damn job, huh?" The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, almost smiling.

"Uh-huh," Callie said, half assertive, half hesitant.

"Okay," he said softly. "Grey. Let's get started cleaning up her face." When Lexie left the room to get supplies, he walked a couple of steps close to Callie. "And the other thing?" He glanced down, then up again, wanting to meet her eyes but not quite knowing how. "When you and I, uh, _you know_?" She nodded, eyes fixed on his. "Seriously, Cal. All you did was make a proposition. _I _was the one who was out of line."

Callie exhaled. "So we're good?" she asked. "You don't hate me or anything? I didn't make everything a hundred times shittier than it already was? 'Cause I keep going over that day in my mind and --"

"You fetched Derek," Mark said. He didn't really want to talk about this, but she seemed to need it and, if he was honest, he probably did too. Life was too difficult already without feeling awkward around Callie. "You were there. You listened. The rest? If doesn't matter to you, it doesn't matter to me."

He looked at his watch. Only 9.45 and he was already so exhausted, there was a part of him that wanted to walk into Richard Webber's office and resign, then go home and curl up on his couch and stay there for fucking good. And he almost would, except what would be the point of all the fighting? What would be the point of the therapy? It would be like crapping on everything he worked for.

He shrugged helplessly at Callie and, as if she knew what was going through his mind, she smiled kindly.

"Today's a shitty day, huh?"

Mark inhaled. "Something like that."

"Well . . . " Her smile grew a little shyer, but at the same time a little warmer. "You still have me. In case that helps."

He swallowed. It did: Callie and Derek and the reminder that he was here to do his damn job. "It helps," he said softly.

* * *

Ten minutes was long enough.

Ten minutes watching your ex-boyfriend and your _ex_-ex-boyfriend hang out at the nurses' station, talking as though nothing that happened in the last three weeks happened? That was enough.

Derek leaned over a chart scribbling. Mark said something. Derek laughed. Mark dipped his head and smiled in that slightly reticent, slightly sleazy way that used to make Meredith smile back, used to make her love him a little bit more, but now made her feel something very close to hate.

But ten minutes frozen to the spot, hidden behind the corner where their hallway met hers, being a crazy psycho stalker resident while the patient whose MRI images she was clutching was left to get worse? That was long enough.

She took a breath, crossed her arms over her diaphragm, with the MRI film as an extra protective barrier between herself and the world, and marched towards the two men who, out of anyone she knew (and right at this moment, she almost wished Lexie would do her popping out of nowhere thing and wave a chart in her face) were the last and the second last people she wanted to talk to today.

About halfway there, Mark picked up a chart and left. Without seeing her. And Meredith almost cried with relief, letting out the breath she'd been holding as she reached Derek.

"Dr. Shepherd," she said, as steadily as she could manage. "I need a consult."

"Meredith." He turned around and his eyes lingered on hers, full of concern and sympathy.

_Don't do that! _She yelled inside her head. _Don't do that because, when you do that, I can't work! _ But outside, she said"Look," she handed him the MRI film. "See, there?" hoping her abruptness and focus on the job would convey the same message. She pointed to a large shadow close to the occipital lobe. "The patient lost control of his car. But it turns out he'd been having headaches for a while, and what he calls 'problems getting his feet to work right.' Do you think they could be related?"

Poring over the image, Derek muttered, "Very good, Mer—" He glanced at her quickly and, when she raised an eyebrow, substituted, "Dr. Grey. We'll need to take him back to MRI for an angiogram? Can you arrange that?"

Meredith nodded. "Yes, Dr. Shepherd," she said, almost breaking into a smile. If work was all she had now, she might as well be good at it.

"Page me when you have it set up, okay?"

She nodded, picked up the film and turned to go, happy to have gotten through unscathed. But at the last moment, Derek's voice stopped her.

"Meredith . . . ?"

She sighed. It had been going so well. Being _Dr. Grey_ was so much easier.

"_Dr. Shepherd_," she replied, emphasizing the formality as she turned back wearily.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly. "Are you --?"

For a moment, she just looked at him, utterly disappointed and let down, while her fragile, protected heart sank into her boots. Then a torrent of blocked, angry words poured out of her in a furious whisper. "Okay that you have your best friend back? Okay that when I'm trying my hardest to be okay you insist on messing it up by asking if I'm okay? Okay that you know one of the worst things that ever happened to me and you just stand there, chatting with him, like it's an ordinary day?"

"Meredith, he --"

"I know," she interrupted, not wanting to hear his excuses for Mark. "He had a breakdown. He just got out of the Psych ward. He's having a hard time. But you know what? So am I." She inhaled. "And you can't help with that and I don't expect you to. He hurt you. I hurt you. He hurt me. But you're his best friend. And I get that." She inhaled. "But what you think you're doing with the _Merediths_ and the looks and the questions? You're not. Because it seems like you think that's helping. And the only way you can do that is by being Dr. Shepherd and letting me be Dr. Grey."

Derek swallowed. "It's not . . . easy," he said. "I want you to know that. You're right. I have my best friend back. And I want to be there for him. But it's not easy when it comes to you."

Meredith pressed her eyes closed. "Not helping," she almost whispered. "Seriously." When she opened her eyes again, he was looking at her, regret written all over his face, and she added in a louder voice, "Not helping either!"

He looked away, nodding. "All right, Dr. Grey," he said in a low voice. "Get the MRI set up."

"Yes, Dr. Shepherd," Meredith breathed, thankful that she was finally able to get away from him and back to work.

* * *

"So, I'm gonna start here, on your left cheekbone, okay?" Mark ran a finger close to Anna David's face along the injury, but without quite touching. "And if you're uncomfortable or you have any questions, just let me know."

Anna nodded, then squeezed her eyes shut as tears formed in her eyes. "Okay," she said quietly.

"The morphine should handle the pain," Mark went on. "But if that's not enough, we'll get you fixed up with something else."

She nodded again. "Thank you."

Mark smiled. "Just doing my job."

It seemed like it was going okay. She seemed to like him and he was dealing with his feelings and, well, doing his damn job. But, really, every time he reached out to touch her with a slow, gentle, doctor's hand, it was impossible not to remember the same hand harming Meredith. This was too close to his life; too close to one of the worst . . . no, _the_ worst failure of his life, and if he'd felt like a fraud this morning in the Chief's office, it was nothing to what he felt now.

"Okay . . ." Mark began the first suture. "Let's get started." He worked in silence for a few minutes, until he noticed Anna trying to catch his eye. "Everything all right?"

"Will there be scars?" she asked nervously. "Because . . . you know . . . I kept meaning to get out. I kept thinking, the next time, I'll just leave him. But then he'd say he loved me and ask me to stay and say he'd change. And now? If there are scars, it's like it won't matter. It won't matter if I leave or not, because every time I look in the mirror I'll see what he did." She took a deep breath. "Sorry . . . I just . . . do you think there will be scars?"

"Not if I can help it," Mark said, managing to be reassuringly gruff even though, with the feelings he was feeling right now, he wasn't quite sure how he got the words out. "We got the swelling down, there's no infection. So now, honestly, all I'm doing is stitching up a few cuts."

"Really?" She almost smiled. "There won't be scars?"

"Nah," he grinned and shook his head. "Scarred patients look bad on my resumé."

She let out a small laugh and seemed to relax and, just for a second, Mark felt a little bit less like scum.

After a few minutes more concentrated work, Mark tied off the suture. "Done," he said. "You're doing really well, here. The next one . . . " Again, he ran his finger over her skin without quite touching, pointing to her lower right cheek. "I'm gonna have to get in a little deeper first off, or I won't be able to align the wound properly. The rest of them, though?" He scanned her face. "Apart from the one over your forehead? They look nasty but, really, they're just small. One or two I can probably just use surgical tape for." He smiled. "But for this one, like I said, if you feel any pain or anything you're not comfortable with, just let me know, okay?"

Anna nodded. "Okay."

Probably fifteen minutes passed, Mark absorbed in cleaning away tissue and deep suturing the wound on her cheek, before Anna spoke again.

"You think I'm pathetic?" she asked softly.

"I think you're doing great," Mark said, distracted, and assuming she was talking about the suturing.

"No," she said. "To stay with a guy who could do," she shrugged as well as her injuries would let her, "_this_ to me?"

Mark's hand stilled as the emotions he'd been able to ignore for a little while came flooding back. "That really isn't my area of expertise," he said, glancing at her as he spoke, and then looking quickly back at the latex gloves on his hands and the needle, wanting to get back to the temporary peace of working.

"Sorry," she said, "I just . . ." She gave up and added another, defeated sounding, "Sorry," then said. "I kind of do, that's all. _I _kind of think I'm pathetic. And I guess I wanted you . . . someone like you . . . a surgeon, a good guy, you know? . . . to tell me I'm not."

Mark swallowed. There was a part of him that wanted to confess to her that he wasn't a good guy. He was exactly like the piece of shit that put her here. But he recognized that she needed him to be who she thought he was; she needed him to keep doing his damn job. "I don't think you're pathetic," he said quietly. "It's not pathetic to believe it when someone makes a promise they're too weak and damaged to keep. It makes you trusting. It makes _them_ pathetic."

"Really?" she asked, tears forming in her eyes again.

"Yeah," he said softly. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry you got hurt this way. No one should have this happen to them." He swallowed. "No one should have to go through this kind of pain." He dipped his head and inhaled, trying to put aside everything that was threatening to overwhelm him: the image of Meredith, sitting on his couch, wrapped in the blue throw, when she still loved him; her face, when he hurt her; her empty eyes not quite looking into his outside the OR three days ago; the split-second's guilty anguish, that didn't belong here but he couldn't help having, for what happened to _him_. When he'd shut it all down as much as he could, he raised his head and did his best to smile at her. "I should get back to fixing your face."

* * *

". . . both as a surgeon at Seattle Grace Hospital and personally, I feel deeply ashamed of my conduct towards you. I would greatly appreciate it if you could find it within yourself to be the better man and accept my apology."

It took an effort of extreme willpower for Mark not to sigh in relief when he reached the end of the Board's absurd speech. He'd spent the past hour sitting in one of the less used supply closets, keeping himself awake with strong coffee, trying to memorize the fucking thing well enough to deliver it with the required air of sincerity.

He thought he'd done okay.

It didn't help that a headache was hammering through his skull, or that the Chief was practically mouthing the words along with him. But, well, yeah . . . _you take responsibility and you move forward_. And he thought he'd done okay.

Jason Rooney smiled slowly, clearly enjoying the power trip of getting to kick a surgeon when he was down. "The better man? I guess I can do that." He let out a satisfied breath, smugly drawing the moment out, until the Chief stepped in by drumming his fingers on the desk in front of him.

"Mr. Rooney," he said, with as much veiled warning in his voice as official politeness would allow.

Jason eyed Richard almost defiantly, then gave a sullen nod in Mark's direction. "I guess I accept your apology," he said noncommittally, then reached across the desk and signed the papers laid out for him.

"Thank you, Mr. Rooney." Richard gave a brief, coldly cordial smile. "Thank you so much for giving us your time and patience."

Mark took a certain satisfaction from the fact that the formal words clearly stood in for _now get the hell out of my office; _and, as Jason left, finally let out the sigh he'd been holding in, closing his eyes and massaging his aching temples with both hands.

"Thank you for that," Richard said. "I know how hard that must have been for you." He cleared his throat and gave a soft chuckle. "It's easy to see why you felt the need to punch him."

Mark ran a hand down his face and opened his eyes wearily. The Chief's support was nice, but with his track record since he'd arrived in Seattle, he didn't want to give the impression laying people out came easily, even if they deserved it. "No," he said. "He's an ass, but . . ." He shook his head. "He said some stuff about someone I cared --" Putting Meredith in the past tense was too hard. He had to be in the past for her, but he wasn't sure she would ever be in the past for him. "Someone I care about, and I was pretty much over the edge anyway. But it shouldn't have been easy. I was at work and I had a procedure scheduled. And," he looked directly at the Chief, "I don't give a damn about him, but I should apologize to you, and Karev, and my patient and everyone else I screwed with that day."

"Apology accepted," Richard said, then asked, "You mean Meredith?"

A beat passed, as Mark tried to think of a way to avoid the question and the pain that came with it, but then he nodded, miserably and said, "I'd prefer if we didn't talk about her."

"She won't be on your service," Richard said firmly. "Normally, I wouldn't get involved. But you've been through a lot and Meredith's . . ." he sighed, "Meredith's special. Things'll be easier that way."

Mark honestly wasn't sure whether he wanted to thank the Chief or, despite the apology he just made, punch him in the face. Either way, though, he wanted to get out of here. He felt like he was on the verge of breaking again, and he wanted to go home before that happened, or pass out in an empty on-call room because, the way he felt right now, he didn't think he could deal with the drive home through the Seattle traffic.

Except, shit! He had therapy; and, looking at his watch, realized he was already late.

* * *

"That, Dr. Grey . . . " Derek pointed at the image coming up on the screen, "is a meningioma. Sunburst appearance. Encroaching on --"

"The occipital horn of the left lateral ventricle." Meredith supplied. "The same condition you and Mark --" She swallowed. "You and Dr. Sloan were planning to operate on before the patient . . ." She trailed off, hit by a soft stab of nostalgia for when she and Mark were together. (Work was supposed to be working; but work was so tied up with everything else.)

"Died," Derek supplied, unflinching, but catching her wistfulness for a moment. Then he smiled. "Hopefully we can save _this_ patient, though."

"Hopefully, we can," Meredith repeated.

Hopefully, this patient, and the one after that, and the one after _that_, could save her.

* * *

"So how was your first day?" Dr. Wyatt asked.

Mark slumped against the back of her couch, barely able to keep his eyes open, the pain in his head throbbing. "Can we . . . ?" He inhaled and let the breath out in a sigh. "Can we maybe not talk today? There's just too much . . . too many people, too many feelings, you know? So can we . . .?" He shook his head and shrugged. Explaining himself involved talking and he really couldn't right now.

"Yes," she said. "It's an unusual request. But I suspect you've earned it. Just one thing, first." She picked up her notebook from the coffee table and flicked through a few pages. "We shared a patient today." She looked up. "Anna David."

"Yeah?" Mark half smiled. "It's good they sent you down. She's deserves --" Then he groaned, suddenly expecting the worst. "Did I do something wrong? I thought it went okay, but she wanted to talk and, everything . . ." He felt tears prickling the back of his eyes, but bit them back. "We're the same," he said quietly. "Me and the ass who hurt her and --"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Dr. Wyatt broke in. "The opposite. She said you helped her. She thought you were kind. She liked all her surgeons, but she especially liked you."

"Yeah?" Mark asked, so softly it was hardly a word.

"Yeah," the psychiatrist nodded and smiled warmly. "I thought you'd like to know that. And now, yes, we can _not talk._"

She grabbed a pile of papers from the desk behind her, and began making notes and scribbling her signature as Mark relaxed, somewhere between dozing and awake.

Then a thought nagged at him, and he opened one eye and squinted at her. "C-PTSD?"

She narrowed her eyes for a second. "I'm assuming that came from Dr. Webber?"

Mark nodded.

"It's a label," she said. "It's convenient; its criteria coincide with what happened to you and how you reacted; and it's useful for talking to people who like to tick boxes on forms. But," she paused, "it's a label. And it has no place between us, because you are so much more than that." She turned back to the papers on her lap, but then looked up again. "That goes for any label anyone might want to give you. And any label you might want to give to yourself."

Mark sighed and closed his eyes again, listening to the faint scratch of her pen as she wrote, and the shuffling sounds that came from time to time from her papers. Sleep was tugging at his mind and body and he let himself go with it.

When Dr. Wyatt woke him later with a touch on the shoulder and a quietly spoken, "Time's up," his headache was fading, and he felt calmer, and like he could face the drive home.

And not just the drive home, but getting up and doing this all again tomorrow.

* * *

_Title Song_: _**And Then You**_, Greg Laswell

_And how my thoughts they spin me 'round  
And how my thoughts they let me down_

_With a melody that climbs and then falls, then falls, then falls  
Without you, without you_


	19. Can Only Change the Person You've Become

Warning: this chapter contains material that some readers may find disturbing.

* * *

Chapter 19 - You Can Only Change the Person You've Become

Doing nothing was giving him too much time to think.

The only medicine he'd practiced this morning was a pressure sore debridement, teaching Lexie Grey the finer points of cutting away dead tissue to a ridiculous degree of detail. Then his pager stayed silent for an embarrassing half hour, and when she awkwardly suggested fetching a banana from the cafeteria so he could teach her new stitches, he gave up and sent her away to study for her intern exam.

Now he was camped out in one of the little research rooms, staring at an online Plastics journal while he played with a paperclip attached to a rubber band he'd found on the desk, trying not to get lost in his own head, because, God, that wasn't a good place to be right now.

He dropped the paperclip, shuffled the mouse against the desk to clear the PC's screensaver, and braced himself to focus on reading.

_. . . Unfortunately, complications associated with chronic immunocompromise are major impediments to widespread use of composite tissue allografting . . ._

His mind immediately started wandering. It had to be the fourth time he'd read that sentence; he hadn't even gotten past the fucking abstract yet. There was so much shit in his head, he couldn't make the words sink in.

When he got home last night, he more or less dropped down on the couch and fell asleep in minutes. Between the hell of day he'd had and the rare moment of something like peace of mind reached in therapy, he figured he'd sleep the sleep of the dead. Which was dumb: because maybe he was too tired to think straight, but that didn't mean he couldn't dream.

He woke up to the sound of his mother's voice. And, Christ, he could still hear her _now_; that lilting, breathless, almost sweetness before cigarettes, booze and age turned it into chafing cynicism. He'd forgotten the words, forgotten all of it, and the reminder was like having one more layer of humiliation peeled back. "_Mommy has a little time before she has to go out, Mark. Shall we play our special game?_" He could see himself, three maybe four years old, playing with a couple of toy cars, while she twirled in front of him, her black silk party dress swishing around her legs. "_Do you think I look pretty_?" And him (he had to fight a gag reflex every time his mind replayed it) telling her _Yes_, because she _was_ back then and, more importantly, he was four years old and she was his mom, God help him.

_Our special game._ It never fucking ended. Exhaustion or no exhaustion, the last thing he wanted to do after that was sleep.

He spent the rest of the night out on the deck, wrapped in the throw from the couch, hugging himself as he hunched on the cold wooden floor, making a very small scotch last as long as possible, wishing like hell he had cigarettes, and off-the-fucking-scale angry at the depth of the mess he was in, until his alarm went off inside the house and jarred him out of the inside of his head and back into the real world. There was a moment when he thought about calling in sick, but the alarm was pissing him off and he had to get up to shut it off, and somehow, step by step, that led to showering, making coffee, forcing down three spoonfuls of cereal, and driving to work.

_Our special game_. He'd been so little; he'd been so damn little and she was supposed to be his mom. _I just wanted her to love me_, he'd told Dr. Wyatt. _Sex was all that was on offer_. And wasn't that too fucking right? In his head, he confronted her over and over again, telling her and trying to convince himself, that this all started with her, he wasn't the cause, he was better than what she did to him and better than what he'd become. And most of all, he wished like hell he'd been able to fight back at the right time and in the right place with the right person. _Because that? What I did to Meredith? That was for you, bitch!_

He pressed his eyes closed, driving the heels of his hands against his eyelids, and inhaled as deeply as he could. Shit, he was so screwed.

"Good morning." Derek's voice startled him, and he looked up, knowing fear was written all over his face and trying to change his expression to something more neutral.

"Hey," he mumbled. He scrubbed his hands down his face, then dropped them to the desk and picked up the paperclip and rubber band again, wanting to hide behind the distraction while he got a grip on his emotions.

Derek pulled out the other chair and sat down, putting a chart and MRI film on the desk and pushing a large cup of coffee across it.

"No tuna fish today?" Mark laughed weakly. It was a lame joke, but he had to give himself credit for saying anything halfway normal. "Did I get downgraded?"

"The coffee's intended as an incentive." Derek smiled. "Based on yesterday's reaction, I doubted tuna fish would have the desired effect."

"Incentive for what?" Mark asked, confused.

"I need your help with something," Derek began, then paused, his brow wrinkled in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look like --"

"I'm fine," Mark sighed. He was trying and he figured as long as he kept trying, she wasn't winning. "I'm just tired," he said. "I didn't sleep well. And," he cast a wry look around the room and gave a laugh that was supposed to be dry but came out sad, "no one seems to want me for anything bigger than banana traumas."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Nah," Mark said softly, shaking his head. "Thanks, but . . ." God knows, he didn't want to inflict these thoughts on Derek, or put himself through the humiliation of telling him. But the part of him that was stuck back with that little kid wanted to share a little bit of the burden. He swallowed. "It's the same old stuff. I just . . . there's always some new shit, you know? And I. . ." But this wasn't the time or the place, so he just smiled and sighed and said, "That's what the shrink's for, right?" then cleared his throat deliberately and changed the subject back to where Derek had started this conversation. "Incentive for what?"

Derek picked up the chart and film and handed them to him. "I'd like your opinion on this."

* * *

_Staff: Shepherd, D.  
Staff: Fisher, P.  
Res: Grey, M._

Meredith stood in front of the OR board, repeatedly scanning the black lettering, proud of herself for the first time in weeks. This was her patient. She had diagnosed him, and later today she would be scrubbing in on a complex surgery.

Okay, her heart rate was permanently elevated; okay, she got four hours sleep and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and, when she couldn't stop the tears coming, crying; okay, her stomach dropped like lead a hundred times a day when she thought she saw Mark, or heard his name mentioned.

But right now, none of that mattered. She was scrubbing in on a surgery, she was scrubbing in on a great surgery, and today was going to be a good day.

* * *

"So what do you think?" Derek asked, as Mark slipped the MRI film inside and closed the chart.

"I think he's a good candidate," Mark said. He was actually thinking that life likes to kick you when you're down and keep on fucking doing it, because his memory was bombarding him from all sides now, with recollections of Meredith encouraging him, loving him, seeing him through the cancer and the tension with Derek the last time a case like this came up, tangled with all the crap that was already in his head. "But the burns make it trickier than what's her face --"

"Melanie," Derek said a little stiffly.

"Yeah, I know, I . . ." Mark knew her name, he just hadn't wanted to say it, or hear it. The more details there were, the worse and more painful the memories got. He sighed again, fighting past his mother's voice, and Meredith's eyes, making himself focus. "Fisher can't fuck around, not with a patient as unstable as this guy. The tissue expansion needs to be precise and quick."

Derek's eyes held Mark's for a moment, then he asked, "Would he stand a better chance with a more experienced surgeon?"

"Maybe," Mark said. "But Fisher's been in this game a while; a year longer than me and --" He broke off when he noticed the gleam of anticipation in Derek's eyes. "You've gotta be kidding me," he said roughly. "You've gotta be out of your mind if you're saying you want _me_ to do this!" He shook his head, not knowing if he was angrier at Derek for holding out a carrot he wasn't in a position to grasp, or at himself for not being able to take the second chance.

"Then let's assume for a moment that I'm out of my mind," Derek said, clearly suppressing a smile. When Mark groaned, he held up a hand to stop him. "Would he stand a better chance with you?"

"No," Mark protested. "What the fuck has gotten into you? You said it yourself: I look like crap, and that's way less bad than I feel. God, Derek. If you knew the shit that was in my head, you wouldn't . . ." He trailed off and inhaled, interested despite himself. Maybe there'd be less shit in his head if he had something real to do; and at his worst he could probably make a better job of this than Fisher. Then he shook his head again, remembering the realities. "Even if I said yes, even if I thought I could handle this, I'm on probation, remember?"

"I can talk to Richard. He listens to me."

"Right," Mark said dryly, "and the Board and Dr. Wyatt and, when you're done with them, the voices in my head." He hoped Derek would have the sense to find all that off-putting enough that he'd shut the hell up and stop taunting him.

He didn't. Just remained calm, openly optimistic with a slight smirk on his lips, and carried on when he left off.

"If necessary. Anyway, you told me you were fine." The smirk got a little more pronounced. "I'm choosing to believe you. You're Mark Sloan --"

"You say that like it's a good thing."

"It is," Derek said quietly. "You're the best plastic surgeon I know, and I don't feel confident doing this procedure without you."

Mark opened his mouth, about to argue again, but suddenly found that he couldn't. The conviction in Derek's words and in his eyes was contagious and he found himself sitting a little straighter in his chair as he asked uncertainly, "You really think I could do this? You really want me?"

"I really want you."

* * *

Richard Webber sighed as he put the phone down, eyeing Derek irritably. "There's a condition."

"Okay . . ." Derek said, glancing at Mark.

He felt Derek's eyes on him, but didn't look up. He was pretending to study the floor, not wanting to look at either of the others. He felt cornered, exposed and slightly ashamed in front of the Chief after all that paper signing and caution yesterday, and at the same time ridiculously hopeful.

"Dr. Sloan," Richard barked, causing Mark's head to snap up. "Go and see your psychiatrist."

"Now?" Mark asked, unclear what was happening, panicking for a moment that his and Derek's request had triggered some kind of serious breach of protocol. His therapy session wasn't until 5.30 pm.

"Now." Richard raised an eyebrow. "I'm informed," he shot a dry glance at the phone, "that Larry Jennings' assistant is calling her to pull her out of whatever she's supposed to be doing. Apparently," he smiled tightly, "you're an acceptable risk now that there's the whiff of a cutting-edge case. But he wants Wyatt's agreement first."

* * *

"You realize I have other patients?" she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. "This is the second time in a week that I've had to disrupt my schedule for you."

"I didn't ask . . ." Mark began, but trailed off because, of course, he kind of had. He'd agreed to the terms of his probation then, on his second day back, challenged all of them. "Derek has a surgery," he said in a low voice.

"So I understand. Do you think you're ready?"

The same question as last time and still, honestly, he didn't know. He knew he wanted to do the surgery now, but desperation probably played a bigger part in that than being ready. It felt good to be needed for something; his mother's voice was quieter, even non-existent for minutes at a time ever since Derek showed him the chart; he needed this. But ready? There was no way he could put his hand on his heart and say yes. "You tell me?" he suggested quietly, half smiling and, when the weak attempt to get around her question fell flat and she just raised an eyebrow, added, "He says he can't do it without me."

"Well, that's what Derek Shepherd thinks. What I need to know is what _you_ think."

"He's right, I guess. I mean . . . I'm kind of the best they've got here." God, it would be funny if it wasn't so painful: the words _I'm the best_ had probably never been uttered so pathetically. "The patient needs all the chances he can get."

Dr. Wyatt held his gaze so hard he had to look away. "So essentially you're telling me any confidence you have about this, you borrowed from Derek Shepherd."

Christ, that came out of left field and it fucking stung! "Why not?" He growled, lashing out with the first reflexive sarcasm his self-protection could find. "Any confidence I have about my whole goddamn life, I borrowed from Derek Shepherd and his family. Or haven't you been listening?"

There was a pause, only long enough for her to take breath, but still enough to let him know she'd heard him and understood. "I'm sorry," she said, kind but unyielding. "It's not my intention to undermine you. It's just important, in reaching this decision, that I understand clearly how _you_ feel and how confident you are."

He nodded and took a deep breath, trying to reach past his defenses to somewhere honest. "I had a dream about my mother last night," he said quietly. "I watched her," he shook his head slowly, "come on to me, when I was four years old. And for a while," he sighed softly, "I thought I'd go under. I sat out on my deck and I thought . . . I _wanted_ to go under. But I didn't." He raised his eyes to meet hers. "I showed up for work, and I mopped up bedsores, and I taught an intern. I'm dealing with it."

"That's good," she said cautiously. "That's a huge step. But this is your second day back. We have whole program planned to get you back to doing surgeries, and --"

"Please!"

She stopped, waiting again, while he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, wishing he could take the word back. Begging wouldn't exactly do his case any favors.

"God, I didn't mean that. It's just . . .". He shrugged helplessly, then swallowed and repeated softly, "Please, okay?" He couldn't help it; that was how he felt. "I wouldn't have asked for this. If it was just me, I wouldn't have pushed it. You're right -- it's my second day back and my first one pretty much killed me and I have no damn business asking for this." He paused and took a breath. "But Derek came to me, because," he swallowed, working up the courage to say it like he meant it this time, "I'm the best plastic surgeon in this place -- I'm one of the best plastic surgeons in the country -- and he needs me. When you take out a tumor that size, the conventional reconstructive methods honestly don't cut it. If I do this right, it can give the guy an extra chance he doesn't really have. And I know this probably isn't what you want to hear, but I don't know what else to tell you." He looked intently into her eyes and said in a low voice, "I get to do something I'm good at and _I_ need _that_. So please let me do this. I can kick ass in there and I can help someone and," he took a deep breath, "you have no idea how ready I am for that."

Dr. Wyatt considered for a moment then, with a small, affirmative movement of her head, she said, "Okay."

"Okay?" He almost thought he'd heard her wrong.

She picked up her phone. "I'll tell Larry Jennings I approve."

"You're serious?" He'd meant every word of his speech with all his heart, but the moment it was over, he'd felt as though he'd dug his own grave.

"I'm serious, yes," she said in an even voice, then raised an eyebrow and half smiled. "I think you're ready."

"Yeah?" His voice was almost shaky from the adrenaline, surprise and relief. "I mean. You didn't even want me to go back to work when I asked the first time and now --"

"You're feeling. You're being honest with yourself and with me. And what may be the most important thing -- you wanted to go under but you didn't." She shrugged. "You're needed. You made your case. I think you're ready." Her eyes twinkled, even though the line of her mouth was stern. "Now go away and do your surgery. This is not your session, and I have patients to see."

* * *

"All right. Thank you," Richard said into the phone, then slowly put it down, before looking at Derek. "You have your approval," he said quietly.

Derek let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you. It's the right thing. For the patient. For Mark. It's --"

"Against his psychiatrist's plan to get him back to work. Against the precautions the Board and I put in place. If something goes wrong, well . . ." In place of continuing in words, he sighed and shook his head meaningfully. "And you'll need to take Meredith off the case. She can't work alongside him, for either of their sakes."

"I'd thought of that," Derek said. It had been one of the first things on his mind, and he hated to do it to her, but more was at stake here. Fisher couldn't have pulled this off; Mark was genuinely needed. "Nothing's going to go wrong. Meredith can scrub in on my next procedure." He paused. "I just couldn't trust Fisher with this. The surgery is beyond his capabilities."

Richard nodded dryly. "Well, you got your wish."

Suddenly angry and defensive at Richard's attitude, Derek turned his frustration into a complaint on Mark's behalf. "Why did you make Fisher interim Head of Plastics, anyway?" he asked. "There are two fifth years who would have done a better job."

"Then there are two fifth years who could have scrubbed in on your craniotomy." Richard said, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't want them," Derek insisted. "I wanted Mark. There's no one here whose abilities and experience come close to his. I know how he works. I know how to work with him. I've known him all my --" He broke off and inhaled, realizing how this looked to Richard; doubting, for the briefest of moments, if he'd done the wrong thing and made this personal. But he knew he hadn't. "I told you," he said. "He's a survivor. He's gone through . . . his life has been . . ." But there was still nothing it was appropriate to say, so he just repeated what he'd said to Mark earlier that morning. "He's the best plastic surgeon I know and he will pull this surgery off better than anyone else could, inside this hospital or out of it." He paused. "If that's all, I have work to do," he said, and turned towards the door.

"Derek," Richard stopped him. "You wanted to know why I made Fisher Head of Plastics?" His tone was half angry, half conciliatory.

Derek nodded.

"So I could give Dr. Sloan his job back, whenever I saw fit, without pissing off a member of staff whose reaction I gave a damn about." He smiled briefly, as Derek let out a short murmur of laughter, diffusing the tension between them, then said, "Close the door on your way out."

* * *

Mark found Alex in the Pit. He figured, after the way they left things, he owed the guy, and a surgery, now he had one, seemed like his best chance of making things right.

For a few seconds they eyed each other, then Alex put down the used syringe he was holding, directing his eyes away from Mark and towards the metal bowl next to him, and mumbled, "Hey."

"Karev," Mark replied quietly, grateful that his voice came out steady. Since leaving Dr. Wyatt's office his emotions had been cycling through elation, focus and total fucking terror. Seeing Alex again added awkwardness to the mix. The guy had tried to do his job well, in the face of his attending breaking down and taking it out on him and Mark felt guilty and embarrassed. He inhaled. "You want in on a surgery?"

"I heard you were back." Alex stripped off his latex gloves and threw them in the trash. "You okay?"

"Yeah . . ." he said and, right now, it was almost the truth. But it still came out a little like a question, because underneath it _was_ one: _Are __**we**__ okay_?

"Good," Alex grunted, then his eyes caught Mark's, not quite resting, scanning defensively, as if he was also trying to work out where they stood. Then unexpectedly, reassuringly, he grinned and said, "I freaking hate working for Fisher. What's the procedure?"

Feeling like a weight had been lifted, Mark grinned back. Apparently they were okay. "Shepherd has a craniotomy. Removing a big menigioma. Then I'm doing a scalp expansion to --"

"Like you planned before?" Alex broke in. "When the chick died?"

Mark nodded. "You want to scrub in?"

"'Course," Alex shrugged, seeming as though he could take it or leave it, apart from the trace of the grin (just about enough to raise Mark's confidence another notch) left on his face. Then his eyes clouded, and he swallowed, looking down and scuffing the floor with the toe of his sneaker, before he looked up again, evasive, not quite able to hold Mark's gaze, deflection fighting a battle with candor. "I'm glad you made it," he said. "That shit's hard. I've seen people . . . " He trailed off, shrugging again. "It's hard, that's all."

For a moment, Mark didn't reply; he didn't know what to say. He just knew that he felt understood, and welcomed back and, hoarsely, he said, "Thanks," before clearing his throat, regrouping, and adding, "Find Lexie Grey and have her scrub in too, okay?"

* * *

The OR board was becoming like a drug and her continual checking felt almost shameful; a compulsion that shouted out loud how truly screwed she was.

Still, surgeons routinely stood and stared at the OR board, and no one else needed to know that looking at her name written against Derek's craniotomy was very close to the only thing giving her the determination to get through the morning.

_Res: Grey, M._

Now she was even imagining it, turning it over in her mind before she saw it written down in black and white. And as she reached the board, she savored the form in her head just a little longer, her vision a step behind her brain, then raised her eyes slowly to bring the reality into view.

It wasn't there. It wasn't freaking there!

Her pulse racing, she scanned the board frantically, each time coming up a heart-churning blank. She almost accosted a scrub nurse who walked past, on the point of demanding what had happened to her procedure.

But then she saw it. Still Derek's craniotomy, but no longer hers:

_Staff: Shepherd, D.  
Staff: Sloan, M.  
Res: Karev, A.  
Asst: Grey, L._

Her throat strained against a wail she refused to make and her eyes smarted with tears she was damned if she was going to let fall this time. She'd said, she'd even believed, there weren't any sides, but clearly there were and everyone was on Mark's. She remembered Cristina telling her once, ages after it happened, how she'd erased Bailey's name from the board to protect Burke. Right now she felt very close to erasing _all_ of their names, to protect _herself_.

It felt as though she had nothing left: not even a craniotomy; not even her name on the OR board. Then out of the corner of her eye she noticed another procedure, an abdominoplasty scheduled to start an hour later:

_Staff: Fisher, P.  
Res: Grey, M._

She still didn't make a sound. She just swallowed and tried not think about all the reasons this was the last straw. She'd had this beautiful life, unexpectedly beautiful, with a man and a job and everything going how it was supposed to. Then he lost himself and her with him. He lost himself and now he was finding his way back, but she couldn't. She was stranded out there, where he left her and every way she tried to get back failed. She actually had to look down at her pale blue scrubs to make sure she existed and wasn't just some kind of ghost haunting the surgical floor.

"Mer . . . I mean, Dr. Grey." Derek's voice in her right ear almost stopped her breath.

For a moment she just looked at him, confused and stunned, and then her voice erupted into a hiss of angry words. "You took my name off the board. You took my freaking name off the board because he --"

"Meredith," he said again, firm and consoling and, this time, she noticed, not faltering over the choice of what to call her. And, really, what possible difference did it make if he called her _Meredith_ or _Dr. Grey_? Boundaries weren't protecting her, so why insist on them? All her names were equal when it came to erasing them from the OR board! He reached out a hand to touch her arm, and she pulled it away violently.

"No." She shook her head furiously, not wanting to hear. "You can't take me off this case. This is my patient. Alex has never even seen him. And . . ." She shook her head again. She couldn't bring herself to mention Lexie, and she didn't trust herself to mention Mark. "Just no!"

He nodded and swallowed. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this. I wanted to tell you myself." He sought out her eyes, but glanced away again when she glared at him. "This is a difficult surgery. You know that." He paused. "I need Mark."

Her eyes widened and she choked a little hysterical laugh through her lips. "Well, good luck with that. I needed him too once, and that didn't work out too well."

"Meredith, I know this feels --" He broke off suddenly, his eyes straying furtively over her head.

"What?" she demanded. "You know it feels _what_? Because I'm pretty sure you . . ." But his eyes were still focused past and above her and suddenly she realized she wasn't the cause. A chill ran down her spine because, really, there could only be one person he'd stand in silence making eye contact with when he was supposed to be talking to her, and she wheeled round.

She was right. It was Mark. And, of course, her stomach dropped and anything she'd been about to say next, any defense of her dismal, impotently angry little corner flew out of her head as their eyes met and his gaze roamed over her face, her hair, before falling self-consciously to the floor, leaving her gaping and stupid and with nothing left to do except turn on her heel and walk away as quickly as she could.

She chose to believe she imagined the soft, gruff _Meredith_ that followed her down the hallway.

* * *

"Meredith . . . " He didn't know why he was saying her name. Some kind of instinct to make things right, even though he knew all he could ever do for her now was make everything worse. He walked a couple of paces towards her retreating back, then stopped, hopeless, and stared wildly at Derek.

"She was my resident," Derek said. "I had to take her off the case. She didn't take it very well."

"Because of me?"

Derek inclined his head but, when Mark groaned, added, "And because of her."

Mark let out a short laugh, without humor and very close to tears, scrubbing a hand over his face. "This was supposed to be a good thing," he said quietly. "I felt like I was coming back. But maybe I shouldn't. If it's gonna hurt her, maybe I shouldn't even try." He looked down and sighed. He ached for her, for himself, for the fucking mess he'd made. She'd looked so sad and lost and angry and he'd done that to her. He inhaled, searching for anything that might help. "She could still be your resident, though, right? I mean, I know the Chief doesn't want her working with me, but she wouldn't be on my service. Karev and Grey are in there for me. You could still use --"

"Karev is fine for what I need," Derek broke in. "And, no, she can't be my resident. Like you said, Richard doesn't want it and nor do I. Nor should you because, honestly, will you be able to work if she's standing in the OR with you? Will she?"

Reluctantly, Mark shook his head. "I just hate to see her like that." She was miserable and, God, Lexie Grey hadn't been lying when she said her hair was short. He guessed it was pretty; Meredith was always pretty. But to him, it looked as though she'd tried to cut a part of herself away and all he wanted to do was reach out and skim the chopped ends with his fingers, tell her he loved her, tell her she'd be okay. He wondered if it would make a difference if he told her why. _It wasn't you. It was never you. I loved you. Something happened to me, something I'd forgotten. My mother . . ._ But he still didn't want her to know. He didn't want to see the pity, or watch her feel that everything was her fault.

_You take responsibility and you move forward_ ran through his mind, and he suddenly understood what it meant. He wasn't responsible for what his mother did to him; he _was_ responsible, one hundred per cent, for what he did to Meredith; and he couldn't change any of it. He could only accept it and move on and hope that Meredith could do the same. If he did this procedure right, that ought to give him credit with the Board. Maybe it would make things go faster and he could get his act together here, get a job in New York quickly and get the hell out of her life.

He swallowed, his eyes slowly meeting Derek's. "You get that I could screw this up?" he asked, tearing himself away from the causes and focusing on the effects.

"You could," Derek conceded. "So could I. But you're the only plastic surgeon I want in there." He paused then added, quietly, firmly serious. "I trust you. You can do this."

An hour later, Derek smiled around the OR, catching Mark's eye for a moment, and said, "Good afternoon, everyone. It's a beautiful day to save lives."

* * *

"You can watch the surgery if you want," Meredith said dryly. "It's kind of a cool one."

"It's not Cardio," Cristina said. "Who cares?"

"Well, _you_ apparently. Since you were on your way to the gallery."

For a brief moment, Cristina's eyes dodged hers, then she challenged, "So were you."

Which was true, at least it was true that she was standing by the door. Apparently there was only one place to go when you've been unjustly kicked off a surgery: back to square one. But she refused to go there; refused to sit in a supply closet on an upturned bucket, hugging her knees and trying not to cry; refused the autopilot of distress and loss in favor of this -- lurking outside an OR where no one wanted her, trying to decide if she had the balls to watch the surgery (and yes, it was pretty damn close to square one, but not quite there yet.) "Thinking about it," she said, an understatement of such epic proportions that she couldn't help cringing at it. "I have to scrub in on Fisher's tummy tuck in an hour anyway." She made herself smile, ignoring the small prickle of tears behind her eyes, then rasped out a soft, "Surgery for losers."

A flicker of something fierce and protective passed over Cristina's face, but she didn't comment. The symbolic metaphorical haircut thing (which, of course, she was right about) was the last time Cristina commented out loud. But since then, un-Cristina-like in her careful tactfulness, she kept pushing understanding through the barriers Meredith put up, getting it anyway, unspoken and unshared and Meredith kind of loved her for it. Especially now, when life seemed to want to ram it home that friendship or even fairness weren't really things she should expect from life.

"I could spy for you," she said, the protective look replaced by the beginnings of a wicked smirk.

"Well, that's an idea!" Meredith almost smiled, almost gave a small laugh. "As long as you tell me what a crappy job they did. How . . ." she considered, "Derek couldn't get the whole tumor, and Alex handed him a ten blade instead of an eleven, and Lexie --"

"Dropped a retractor!" Cristina broke in.

Meredith managed a grin. "And Mark . . ." She trailed off, swallowing. She didn't want him to fail on his first surgery. She didn't want him to fail at all. She kind of hated herself for it -- it felt like weakness, the kind that took you _all_ the way back to square one -- but as angry and disappointed and messed up and hurt as she was, and as much as she'd _like_ to, she couldn't bring herself to even joke about him screwing up. "Never mind." She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to clear it. She wished, more than anything, it would all -- all the thoughts, all the pain, all the _everything_ -- just go away and leave her alone.

"You need tequila," Cristina said, and Meredith opened her eyes.

"No," she shook her head again. "Tequila's square one. I gave up drowning things in tequila . . ." For hair that sucked and a plastics procedure with a run of the mill attending! "Anyway look what happened last time we went drinking. I threw myself at a nurse and you wouldn't talk to me and --" The words were pouring out of her and she almost said it, almost said what she couldn't say out loud. _Mark raped me_. "Mark stopped loving me and I stopped loving him and it's just not a good idea."

A beat passed, a moment caught between them when she knew Cristina was on the point of asking her what happened. But she shook her head very quickly and Cristina glanced away, then repeated, dry and deflecting on the outside, but with the same soft ferocity underneath, "You need tequila."

It was so tempting. She didn't know if it was giving up or adapting; and maybe the distinction wasn't clear and didn't matter. Because she definitely needed _something_ and, probably, when you're were this close to square one it made no difference, tequila was as good place to start as any. "I need tequila," she shrugged, half regretting, half relishing the familiar sense of anticipated comfort. "Joe's? After work?"

* * *

"Dr. Sloan?" Derek's voice calmly broke the quiet of the OR.

Mark raised his eyes, the small movement feeling like it took forever, then swallowed. Everything was in slow motion, quiet, muffled. He'd been going over the steps of the procedure in his head, chanting them almost, in strict order, to drown out the self-hatred and the doubt and the guilt that _he_ was in here and Meredith wasn't. He hesitated, eyes fixed on Derek's for reassurance, feeling as each second ticked by like he was keeping them all waiting for hours.

Then the OR burst into intense focus. With a motion that started with willpower but flowed into a muscle memory that made him want to laugh out loud just from the exhilaration of it, he held out his hand and said, "Scalpel." As he made the first incision, concentrating on the scalp, he said, "Grey get over here." He heard the rustle of her scrubs as Lexie moved closer then, looking up briefly, winked. "Better than bananas, right?"

He was a surgeon again. He was a kickass fucking surgeon and he could do this. And if Lexie standing next to him made him think of another Grey in another OR in another time that was easier and loving and gone, he blocked out the splintered feeling in his heart and got on with his job. He needed this for himself and, maybe even more, he needed it for her.

* * *

_Title song: __**Crash and Burn**_, Lifehouse

_The ones I love I lost in memories  
I wish that I could take back what was done  
You can only change the person you've become_

_*_

_As I crawl past lessons learned  
They remind me I'll survive  
I've been hurt and I've been scarred  
At least I know that I'm alive  
And If I fall and crash and burn  
At least we both know that I tried_


	20. When All You Want Is To Be A Stranger

Chapter 20 – When All You Want Is To Be A Stranger

The scrub room was quiet. Except for the sound of water splashing into the sink as he and Derek scrubbed out, so quiet that Mark could hear himself breathe. He could almost hear _Derek_ breathe. The quiet was comfortable, even comforting – the water, the soap, the companionship after a job well done – it was like an oasis; a kind of staging post between the adrenaline high of surgery and the _un_comfortable reality of his life back out there in the real world. He felt good here. He felt like he'd done something good today.

He'd pulled it off. The surgery had gone well – no, make that perfectly.

And now he was here, making the business of scrubbing out last as long as he could, standing next to his best friend, trying to wrap his mind around it all and not let go.

There was only so much time he could spend cleaning his hands and arms, though. He pulled air into his lungs and pushed it out again, somewhere between a wistful sigh and a bracing breath to get him through everything that would come next, then shut off the faucet and shook the excess water from his skin. Derek passed him a towel. Their eyes met for the first time since they'd come in here and, as though it was a cue, Derek broke the silence with a simple but heartfelt,

"Thank you."

Mark smiled. In another life – the arrogant one, before illness, memories and his own actions left him with only threads of confidence to hold on to – it might have been a grin; and even now, it almost was, because he was a surgeon again and there was no self-doubt in the world that could entirely erase what he'd done today. "I guess it wasn't a bad day's work," he said quietly, then added, "You too. The craniotomy." His smile got a little broader. "We did good, huh?"

Derek nodded thougthfully. "I'd forgotten," he said. "I'd forgotten exactly how good you are. I knew you'd do a good job, I knew I needed your skills in there. But, even so . . . I'd forgotten." He smiled, offering friendship and an implicit apology. "It's been a while since we worked together."

"You don't have to keep saying good things about me," Mark said quietly. "You got me in on the surgery. You're here for me. That's," he rubbed the back of his neck, "way more than I expected." Derek didn't need to apologize to him, and it made Mark uncomfortable to hear him even trying.

"I do." Derek's voice broke softly into his thoughts. "I should say good things about you. I should havesaid good things about you . . . _to_ you more often."

Understanding, and rejecting the understanding, Mark shook his head. "We don't have to rewrite history, Derek, because . . ." _Because I was abused; because my mother was . . . _ But he didn't want to use the words. Not here, not now, not really even in his own head. "You know."

After a pause, Derek said, "Well, perhaps. But perhaps the history should have been written differently in the first place." He smiled, his eyes full of regret and kindness. "At least let me buy you a drink. We did a great surgery together. We should have a drink to celebrate. Joe's finest single malt."

"I don't know," Mark deflected. He wanted to, but he and Derek hadn't been to Joe's together in . . . well, ever really, not just them as friends, and he didn't want Derek to feel obligated. "I have therapy and –"

"Have a drink with me," Derek insisted gently.

Mark swallowed and looked down. Whether he deserved or it not, they really had moved forward. He raised his eyes to meet Derek's. "I'd like that," he said. "Joe's, then? When I'm done with therapy?"

Derek nodded. "I'll see you there," he said, adding, as he pushed open the door to leave the scrub room, "I'll stop by the ICU to check on the patient. Give you an update on your handiwork."

* * *

"Dr. Grey." Dr. Fisher's voice broke into Meredith's . . . she wouldn't exactly call her state of mind _thoughts_, more like an empty, distracted stupor. "I asked you to adjust the clamp. Three times. Care to give me an estimate of when that might happen?"

"Oh," she stammered, completely disoriented. She guessed she'd known she was in the OR, she just didn't seem to have any idea what she was meant to be doing. Her fingers fumbled clumsily, but she got control and steadied her hand, although not before Dr. Fisher noticed and smacked his lips in disgust.

"Pull it together, Grey, for God's sake," he said, then pointed to the patient's open lower abdomen and made an exaggerated sigh. "For the fourth time, use the clamp to take up one inch more – and precisely one inch, please - tissue to the left."

* * *

"I understand congratulations are in order," Dr. Wyatt said as Mark walked into her office.

"I thought you didn't listen to gossip," he teased her. The adrenaline was out of his system and the old, familiar sinking feeling in his stomach was returning. But he was still just relaxed enough to make a joke.

"I listen to good gossip," she said. "Especially when Richard Webber practically shouts it down the phone." She winced playfully. "You appear to have made him very happy today. So happy, in fact, he wants me to talk to you about a plan to get you back working as Head of Plastics."

Mark sighed. The sinking feeling in his stomach turned into hollowness, as he lowered himself down onto the couch and leaned back against the cushions. He'd hoped he could avoid this conversation, just for today, for a few more selfish hours he could've used the break. But evidently life had other plans for him.

Dr. Wyatt watched him closely, then tried to be reassuring. "I think you can do it if you take it slowly."

"Thanks," Mark said quietly, then sighed again. "But that's not the reason . . . " He shook his head. "It's just not gonna happen."

She raised an eyebrow, questioning him.

"I saw Meredith today," he began. "She got kicked off the surgery. Because of me."

"That seems like a practical decision. For you. For her."

"That's the consensus, yeah," Mark said, letting out a soft, dry laugh. "But the way I see it?" He shook his head again. "I trashed her world and now I just keep on doing it." He swallowed. "It's not fair on her to have to see me at work every day. So I'm thinking, once I've got a few more surgeries under my belt, when I'm a little more stable, I should maybe leave . . . go back to New York."

Dr. Wyatt shifted in her seat and tapped her notebook a couple of times. "You're intending to quit therapy?" she asked, not quite as neutrally as Mark thought she probably intended.

"They have shrinks in New York," he said, trying for the teasing tone he'd used with her a few minutes ago, but pretty much failing. He didn't really want to go; he doubted he'd find another psychiatrist like her – someone who'd call him on his bullshit and support him at the same time; someone who saw through his defenses, who was blunt enough, but kind enough to have some chance of helping him. He just knew he had to for Meredith's sake. "You could pass on notes, right?"

She swallowed hard and turned her head away from him for a second, then abruptly pushed her notebook onto the coffee table between them and leaned forward. "You can't take a break from this," she said. "You can't interrupt this process, leave your support system and go back, alone, to the place where you experienced your worst traumas and built up your strongest defenses. You can't do that without wrecking everything you've worked for. You can't just give up on yourself, when you could stay here and make things . . . if not right, then at least possible between you and Meredith."

Mark took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to stay calm. She was right, in a way. He was, kind of, giving up on himself, at least making it a damn sight harder on himself. But he was doing it for a good reason. "You told me, take responsibility," he said. "Move forward. That's all I'm trying to do here. I have more options than Meredith. I have more money. I think one of us should go, and I think it should be me. The person who did the damage needs to be the one who takes responsibility."

For a moment, Dr. Wyatt remained silent, then she said quietly, "You're right. You're absolutely right. You need to take responsibility for your actions. But there are other ways of doing that. Harder ways, in the short term, maybe than your default position of punishing yourself. But –"

"I raped her," Mark broke in desperately, then tried to bite back the next words, because they'd only complicate everything, but somehow he couldn't. "No one took responsibility for me. No one made my mother take responsibility for what she did. But I know better. I fucking know better than that." He paused. "I never took responsibility for her. For us. I jerked her around and avoided her and let her make all the effort. Even when things were good between us, I wouldn't talk to her about my family and I hated it when she talked about hers." He briefly pressed his eyes closed against the memory of everything he'd had with her and lost and the mingled warmth and pain it brought him. "She always said I made her feel safe. Which is a fucking joke now. But she always said I made her feel safe. And the truth is, it was the opposite way around. She made me feel safe, and I trashed it all, and now I owe her. I owe it to her to stop making her world unsafe." He sighed. "Sorry," he said. "That's not . . . none of that's relevant." He looked intently at her. "I just need to leave."

Dr. Wyatt nodded, then slowly twisted around in her chair and reached behind to her desk. When she straightened up, she was holding a manila envelope that Mark recognized as the photos Mrs. Shepherd gave him.

He shook his head, not wanting to get into that now and Dr. Wyatt, after considering for a moment, put the envelope down on the coffee table, leaving it – thank God – alone.

Except then she said, "What if you talked to Meredith?"

At first, Mark honestly wondered whether the emotions that were coursing through had made him hear her wrong. Then he scanned her face. She was looking steadily back at him, waiting for a response. "Trust me," he said, replaying in his head today, by the OR board, when she'd turned her back on him and walked away. "She doesn't want to talk to me."

"She visited you in the psychiatric ward," Dr. Wyatt insisted. "She could have reported you to the authorities, or Dr. Webber, or both, and she would have been within her rights. But she didn't. Maybe you're wrong." She paused. "Maybe you could talk to her. Work out a way of co-existing. You could invite her to a therapy session. Perhaps if she understood, if you could tell her in a safe context, what happened to you, then –"

"That's not gonna happen," Mark interrupted, unable to listen to any more. There was a part of him that was interested in the suggestions, a part of him they gave some hope to. But it all came down to this: what he did wasn't forgivable, who he was wasn't forgivable, not where Meredith was concerned, and he just had to get the hell out of her life.

For the rest of the session, a kind of stalemate settled between them, until Dr. Wyatt sighed and said, "Time's up for today. I hope I'll see you tomorrow."

Mark stood up and nodded. "I'd like to stay in therapy with you until I leave," he said quietly.

She acknowledged him by raising an eyebrow and giving a curt nod in return. Then, as he was about to leave, she stopped him. "Dr. Sloan." She picked up the envelope of photos and held it out to him, as though it was an afterthought. "Take these with you, would you? I'd forgotten to give them back to you."

He didn't want them, and he honestly doubted she ever did anything by accident. But he was too despondent and exhausted now to try and work out what she had in mind, or to argue with her any more, so he just took the envelope and stuffed it in his bag, infinitely thankful that he was on his way for a drink with Derek.

* * *

Even after five minutes of sitting in the hallway outside the OR, Meredith was still dazed by the way she got there.

Fisher threw her out. He called her inattentive and useless and ordered her out of his OR. Now she couldn't help wondering what her mother would have thought. Meredith Grey who was born and raised to be extraordinary – thrown out of a freaking tummy tuck! _Except_, she thought bitterly, _we're not supposed to talk about our families, are we_? hating herself for the fact that everything, every damn thing, seemed to end up back thinking about Mark.

"You okay?"

She looked up to see Alex peering at her and narrowed her eyes. "Traitor," she hissed at him, half-angry and half- . . . well, still angry, but it was very hard to stay mad at Alex, especially when she needed all the friends and security she could get.

"Huh?"

"Don't _huh_ me," she said. "You know what you did. You stole my surgery. And you worked with _him_. And you, you're . . ." She stopped herself before the words _You're supposed to be __**my**__ friend_ poured out, and concentrated on fighting back the predictable, infuriating prickle of tears.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Sloan's tissue expansion?" he asked. "I didn't know it was yours. He offered it to me." He shrugged defensively. "What the hell was I supposed to say? It was a huge deal. And even if it wasn't, he's . . ." He shifted uncomfortably, before blurting, "The guy was going around the hospital like some kind of lost puppy."

"Like I said. Traitor."

"Whatever." He scanned her face. "You went to see him, right? After we talked. You didn't –"

"I didn't," Meredith said curtly. "I didn't . . ." _Leave him in the psych ward by himself. Although I should have. _She swallowed. "He made it clear he didn't want me. And I made a decision that I don't want him." A little part of her - the same frustrating, painful part that couldn't bring itself to wish bad things to happen to Mark on his first surgery back at work – ached as she said these words. But it was a very little part, and getting smaller all the time; if she took no notice of it, it might even go away.

For a split second, Alex's eyes held hers questioningly, then he changed his expression to something more neutral.

She let out a small sigh, relieved that his instinct for when to back off was still intact. (It was one of the reasons it was hard to stay mad at him.)

"Sorry about the surgery," he muttered, then added a guardedly hopeful, "We good?"

"It's fine," she shrugged. "We're good." As he walked away, leaving her sighing in the hallway, she wished so hard she could say the same about herself.

* * *

"You get that you'll have to leave when Meredith arrives?" Cristina demanded, withholding the shot glass until Lexie nodded her agreement. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd allowed Lexie to sit down at her table. Maybe just because Joe's was crowded and Lexie was by herself; maybe she felt like being a mentor; maybe the way Meredith pushed her half-sister away made Cristina feel protective (again, why, she had no idea); or maybe, now that Meredith was more or less shutting her out too, she felt some kind of reluctant empathy.

She sighed, then touched her glass briefly to Lexie's and they both knocked back their tequilas. It didn't really matter why Lexie was here. She was still a stupid intern; she was still annoying; but Meredith was late and Lexie was company. Plus she seemed to know a thing or two about drinking.

Lexie put her glass back down on the table and licked her lips. "I always drank beer or vodka before I came to Seattle," she said. "But tequila's –"

"Meredith's?" Cristina broke in caustically, at least as much to crush her unsettling urge to bond as to crush Lexie, but it had the foreseeable result, on both counts.

Lexie swallowed and stared at the table, eyes lowered so far down that all Cristina could see were long, dark, forlorn eyelashes.

"I was going to say _popular_," Lexie said quietly. "Everyone in my year seems to like it."

Relenting and inwardly cursing herself for it, Cristina searched around for some kind of conversational olive branch. "Studying going well?" she asked awkwardly. "Your intern test's in a few days, right?"

Lexie looked up, clearly confused by the change of subject. "The . . .?" she began, but suddenly widened her eyes in excitement and started rummaging in her bag under the table, pulling out index cards. "Would you test me?" she said. "I mean . . . I've studied and I know it, but it would be so great if you'd test me, maybe give me some tips." She finished off the barrage of enthusiasm with a broad, hopeful, delighted smile that Cristina was tempted to wipe off her face with some choice words, but couldn't quite rise (or sink) to the level of meanness required to do so.

Instead, she groaned lazily and refilled their glasses again. "I don't need your little cards." She waved her hand dismissively. "I have better questions. Legendary questions." She raised a challenging eyebrow. "Ready?"

Lexie's smile broadened to an almost disturbing degree.

* * *

After the mess in the OR, Meredith was running late. But she had an image in her head, an image that made the afternoon's messed-up-ness seem a little more bearable:

Cristina. The bar. A bottle of tequila and two glasses.

Clearly, though, these days images in her head got her nowhere. Because now, as she arrived slightly breathlessly at Joe's, the image was shattered. The only person sitting at the bar she knew was Derek, by himself, staring at a glass of scotch. Cristina, on the other hand, was tucked into a corner table with Lexie, evidently both nicely buzzed, laughing about something that seemed disconcertingly mutual, and apparently enjoying each other's company.

When she reached the table, preparing to clear her throat meaningfully, she overhead Cristina say,

"Okay. What's actinic keratosis?"

"Pre-malignant lesion," Lexie rattled off, beaming as though she was answering a question in elementary school.

"Correct," Cristina said and quirked her eyebrow with what could only be described as approval.

"Yay!" Lexie gushed, half-raising her arms in the air in a little victory wave.

"Am I interrupting?" Meredith asked, no longer able to stand it. She glared first at Lexie, then at Cristina. "I thought we were supposed to be drowning things. In tequila. Not . . ." She waved a hand in place of words she didn't quite want to say, but she was pretty sure would be related somehow to treachery.

Cristina and Lexie both pulled straight faces, and Cristina muttered, "Go away, Three," out of the corner of her mouth.

Lexie nodded, her eyes fixed on the table, and began to stand up. Ignoring her, Meredith pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching for the tequila bottle and Lexie's used glass. She poured a measure, drank it down, and then refilled her glass. She caught Cristina's eye and saw concern written all over her friend's face, which she tried to deflect by saying, "What? You got a head start on me."

"Nothing," Cristina said, obviously stifling a sigh. "How did your abdominoplasty go?"

"Screwed up," Meredith said. "Screwed up, like everything else in my life." She pressed her eyes closed and took a deep breath. She just wanted to spend the evening getting drunk without thinking. She didn't want Cristina stifling sighs; she didn't want to feel guilty, or irritated, or _anything _about Lexie. It wasn't that she wanted Lexie to stay, it was just that she was just too tired, too absolutely obliterated by her life to be bothered to hate her any longer. And then, there was the promise she'd made to herself, what seemed like a lifetime ago now – no, not a lifetime, a whole other life – to try and be a sister.

"Sit, Lexie," she said. "Sit down and let's just . . ." She sighed. "Let's just drink, okay?"

She felt almost relieved when, with the ghost of a smile on her lips, Lexie sat back down.

* * *

Joe's was crowded with what seemed like half the damn hospital. It was Mark's first time here since . . . everything, and he tried to dodge the curious looks and awkward smiles by keeping his eyes pretty much glued to the ground, as he wound his way to the relative safety of Derek and the bar.

The bar, exposed and in full view of everyone, wouldn't exactly have been his first choice. But the place was heaving and all the more discreet tables were taken, so he sank down on the free barstool, gratefully accepting the glass of scotch that Derek pushed in his direction, gulping back about half of what turned out truly to be Joe's finest (probably thirty-year-old) scotch, and deserved more considerate treatment than he was giving it.

"The good stuff, huh?" His voice came out hoarsely, partly from the rich burn of the scotch, but mostly because he was tired and finding it very hard not to be miserable after the therapy session and everything it brought up and didn't resolve. "How's the patient doing?" he made an effort to add, aware that the occasion probably deserved more considerate treatment, too, and better conversation than he really felt capable of.

"Good." Derek nodded. "No inflammation or fever, his vitals are good, he's stable. He hasn't woken up yet, but that's normal. I'm not worried." He picked up his drink. "Cheers," he said, and took a slow sip. He tilted his head and looked at Mark. "How are _you _doing?"

"You asking because of my sunny disposition?" Mark teased dryly.

Derek smiled. "That and the mistreatment of a very good single malt." He gave a small, forgiving shrug. "Today was a long day."

"I'm just tired." Mark inhaled, trying to clear his mind of everything except the great work they'd done that day, their friendship, and the fact that this was supposed to be a celebration. He laughed softly through his nose. "And I think I pissed off my shrink. She's not a woman you want to piss off."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Thanks, but . . . "Mark shook his head. There was honestly nothing to say they didn't both know backwards and inside out; all of it hurt one or both of them; and none of it helped with anything, except maybe the decision to get out of Meredith's life. Mentioning Dr. Wyatt, though, reminded him of the envelope full of photographs inside his bag. He picked up his glass and turned it around in his hands, before saying tentatively, "Could you do me a favor?"

Derek half-nodded, half-shrugged agreeably and Mark bent down, reached inside the bag on the floor by his feet and pulled out the envelope.

"Your mom gave me this," he said, as unrevealingly as possible. "When I saw her in New York. Could you maybe give it back to her?"

"Is that a subtle way of getting me to call my mom?" Derek joked, evidently confused and uncomfortable.

"No. It's an unsubtle way of me getting rid of something I don't want to carry around," Mark said, instantly regretting the irritated tone that lined his voice. He swallowed. "Please?" He held the envelope out for Derek to take it.

Derek reached for it, but then asked, "What is it, anyway?"

Mark's first instinct was to lie: he didn't want to discuss the pictures. But there really wasn't any point, since Derek could look inside the envelope and figure it out for himself; and, honestly, he didn't have the energy. "It's photos," he said. "They're of me – there are a couple of you in there as well – when I was a little kid. My shrink wanted . . ." He looked down as he words trailed off, and didn't look up again until Derek said quietly,

"I understand," then took the envelope from Mark and laid it down on the bar on the side furthest away from him.

Silence fell between them for a moment, and they each took a sip of their drink as they got control of the emotions between them.

Finally, Derek cleared his throat. "Would you like to get out of here and grab some dinner?" he asked.

"Thanks, but . . ." Mark was about to ask for a rain check. He needed to think and sleep. Then he realized he was hungry, starving, in fact. He hadn't eaten since breakfast; lack of appetite had him gotten out of the habit of paying much attention to food. But he'd worked all day, and he was feeling kind of wrecked, and he really was hungry. And it would be good to hang out with Derek a little longer; probably a hell of a lot better than going home alone right now, however compelling his – what did Dr. Wyatt call it? - default position of punishing himself (he winced inside a little as her words hit home) might be. He raised an eyebrow. "You buying?"

"If that's what it takes," Derek said. "Just let me . . ." He gestured in the direction of the rest room, then got up leaving Mark by himself at the bar.

Immediately, he felt exposed and self-conscious again. Drinking slower now, to give himself something to do until Derek came back, he alternated taking sips of scotch and turning his glass around in his hand.

There was sudden a touch on his arm, the smell of perfume, as Derek's vacated barstool scraped against the floor. For a moment, he froze, terrified despite (or maybe because of) all his years of experience that this was some woman's opening move. He swallowed and glanced up, trying not to look as scared as he felt.

"Hey, there."

_Callie. _He let out a deep, relieved sigh when he saw her warm, reassuring smile.

"I thought I'd come over and say . . ." She shrugged. "Hey, I guess. And," she touched his arm again, firmer this time, "congratulations, of course. The great Shepherd/Sloan craniotomy is all the hospital can talk about right now."

He shrugged awkwardly and sort of smiled, still caught up in the rush of fear that had shot through him and, underneath that, half-embarrassed, half-pleased by her praise and kindness. "Thanks," he finally managed, then forced a smirk for her benefit. "Just doing my damn job, Torres."

* * *

"—it's like there's nowhere, literally freaking nowhere I can go!" Meredith reached out and waggled her fingers for the glass she was now taking turns with Lexie to drink from. Derek by himself at the bar had been just about tolerable, but a glance up and around the overly crowded room had revealed that Mark had joined him. She hadn't seen him arrive, and the first glimpse had jolted her heart so hard with emotions she refused to name or feel or acknowledge, for a moment it felt like she was in shock. Now she was recovering a little, as anger and bitterness took over and stuffed all the other, inconvenient feelings back down. But she couldn't stop staring at him and she couldn't stop thinking about him. "Joe's is mine," she spat. "I was here first. Joe's. Seattle. I was here first, dammit."

"We can go somewhere else, Mer," Cristina said. "There are other bars." She shrugged. "Or we could go back to your place."

"No!" Meredith protested. "I lost my surgery because of him. I lost my . . ." _Heart and my trust and my confidence_, but she couldn't say that out loud, especially not in front of Lexie. "I'm not going to give up my drinking place, not for –" She broke off and narrowed her eyes as Callie Torres slid onto the barstool Derek had been sitting on, leaned towards Mark and put a hand on his arm. "Is she . . .?" She stared at Cristina. "Is he _sleeping_ with her?" She closed her eyes and and breathed, trying to hold onto the anger and bitterness part. "So he's doing great, then. Completely back to normal. He has his BFF and his kick-ass surgery and slutty girls to do slutty things with. And I –"

"She's not sleeping with him," Cristina broke in, allowing a little frustration to creep into her voice. "She's not sleeping with him, he's not sleeping with her. And _you_? You need to stop pretending and talk to someone."

Their eyes met and, for a few seconds, Meredith felt the urge to talk, to confess (or cry, or roar, or scream) bubble up in her throat. Then the moment was lost, abruptly, as Lexie, confused and anxious to please, blurted out the confirmation, "She's not sleeping with him. She's not. She's definitely not. I know that, because . . ." She trailed off and blushed bright red, covering her mouth with her hand.

"How would you know that?" Meredith demanded (because anger and bitterness were so much easier than truth), not caring when Lexie cringed. "I mean . . . Cristina is Callie's roommate, so I get that she would know stuff. But you're an intern, you're nobody. You couldn't –" She broke off, staring wildly, knowing she was about to fall into some kind of abyss she shouldn't even be approaching, but not able, not even really wanting to stop herself. "_You're_ sleeping with him! That's why you were in on his surgery, today." She laughed wryly. "You get that that's how he operates, right? It used to be the whole McSteamy thing. But now it's surgeries, telling you how much potential you have; acting charming and vulnerable, like you're the only person he can be himself with." Her heart caught; she ignored it. She didn't care about him, there were no shards of love left over, she didn't care who he slept with, she didn't even care that, apparently, in the end it _was_ all just about sex for him and he had destroyed her for nothing. She was worried about Lexie, that's all: she wasn't about to let him screw her up too. "We need more tequila," she announced, standing up, almost pushing the chair over behind her.

"I'm not. I'm really not . . ." Lexie attempted to say, but lost her nerve

"We still have over a third of a bottle," Cristina said, firm, calm and her eyes still fixed on Meredith's.

"Well, then . . ." Meredith searched around for an excuse. "We need another glass. Lexie and I can't keep sharing a glass. And limes. And beer! I'm going to get beer."

"Sit down, Mer." Cristina half-stood up. "I'll go. You probably shouldn't –"

"Now I can't even go to the bar because he's there?" Meredith practically yelled, attracting the attention of the table next to them. She didn't care. She'd held it all in so long, so freaking long. "I can't even order a freaking beer? And he's doing fine and . . .and . . . screwing my sister!" She inhaled. "Well that's not happening! That's not happening while I can do something about it!"

She stormed towards the bar before anyone could stop her.

* * *

"You know what? You know what I find sad?"

Her voice was harsh, but she was close to trembling. Her face was flushed, dark circles lined her eyes, her too short hair was slightly sweaty and out of place, and Mark couldn't take his eyes off her. If he'd been terrified a few moments ago, he didn't know what to call the fear that was hammering in his chest right now.

"Meredith . . ." he mumbled, hating himself for not having anything better to say.

"I should maybe . . ." Callie said awkwardly, finishing off the sentence by getting up and walking unobtrusively away.

Meredith raised an eyebrow expectantly, and Mark cleared his throat and somehow managed to answer her. "No." He swallowed. "What?"

"What I find sad is that you have this great surgery. After everything you've done and screwed up, when another doctor would be fighting for his job right now, you have this great surgery just handed to you. And you use it to get into a twenty-four-year-old intern's pants."

The accusation hurt so badly and on so many fucked-up levels, Mark felt himself physically recoil. But he tried to stay calm. She was desperate, anyone could see that; she was desperate and broken, because he broke her. His throat was dry now, and he swallowed several times, trying to build up to say something comforting, even though all that came out, again, was "Meredith, I . . ." before he gave up and fell back into helpless, defeated silence.

"It's not appropriate," she went on. "It's not right. She's not damaged goods. She's not like you or me. She had a great mom and," she inhaled, "against all the odds, a great father, and she doesn't deserve the damage you do to people. So what I'm thinking is –"

"Meredith, I'm not –" Mark found the courage to break in. He couldn't have her thinking he was sleeping with Lexie. But she held up her hand and forced him into silence again.

"What I'm thinking is . . ." She sighed wearily. "Just have sex with me instead."

It felt like every muscle in his body tensed.

"I mean, you already damaged me. Whatever damage wasn't done before was well and truly finished by you. And," she laughed, a little, scathing, fake-flirtatious laugh that pierced through Mark's heart, "I'm not getting any sex, not since . . ." She shrugged aggressively, swallowing and squeezing back the tears that were forming in her eyes. "Well, we both know since what. And sex was always the way I coped. So –"

"Meredith . . ." Mark said again, very quietly. He wanted to say _Please don't_, because he couldn't take much more of this, but he didn't deserve that much consideration. Everything she said was right; everything she thought and felt was exactly what he tortured himself with. He had done this to her. What he had done was unforgivable. So he just looked down and hoped she would get how much shame and pain he was feeling and that somehow that would make a difference.

It didn't.

"So just have sex with me." She moved closer to him, close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. "Take me back to the restroom and do your thing. Because –"

"Meredith." A much sterner voice than Mark could have mustered in a million years cut through her words. Derek was standing behind her. "Meredith, that's enough."

Mark shook his head. "It's okay," he said softly, to Derek, then forced himself with every last trace of willpower he had to look in Meredith's angry, frightened, almost glazed eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know that's not enough. But I'm sorry." He swallowed. "I'm leaving. As soon as I can, I'm getting out of here." His voice became almost inaudible as he added, "I hope that helps a little."

She paused for a moment, eyes fixed on his in a kind of agonizing slow motion. Then she snapped back to life. "You're right," she said. "It's not enough. But," she shrugged, "it's good that you're going. It's good that . . ." She seemed to be fighting through confusion, as she nodded and repeated, "It's good that you're going," before hesitating, like she was on the verge of panic, then retreating quickly towards the rest room.

"I'm sorry," Derek said, lowering himself onto the barstool.

"She has the right."

Derek acknowledged the point with a nod, but then said, "If she knew what happened to you, it would make a difference."

Mark let out a half-sad, half-dry laugh. "Well, it shouldn't," he said. "Like I said, let's not rewrite history, huh?" He stood up. "Okay if I skip dinner?" he asked. "I just . . ." He shook his head. "I'm just gonna go home now. Figure things out a little. Try and get some sleep." He turned to go, but then looked back. "Thanks," he said. "I know how you feel about her, so I . . . just thanks."

* * *

After watching the scene at the bar for several minutes of tension-filled silence, Cristina half-refilled her and Lexie's shot glasses.

"Drink!" she said. "You're gonna need it when she gets back."

Lexie took a quick, distracted sip, then put her glass back down on the table. "She called me her sister," she said wonderingly.

Cristina snorted. "She also called you _nobody_," she said. "And I don't think the Grey family unit is the first thing on her mind, right now."

"Then," Lexie swallowed, shooting Cristina a self-conscious glance, "she called me her sister by accident. I mean, I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't be thinking about that when . . . when Meredith's going crazy. But she called me her sister when she wasn't even thinking about me." She widened her eyes. "That's something, right? That has to mean something."

"She knows you're her sister," Cristina said quietly. "And she's not going crazy." She took a deep breath in, then exhaled all the way out, letting out the breath she felt like she'd been holding on Meredith's behalf for weeks. "She's finally talking."

* * *

_Title song:_ _** Always**_, Neverending White Lights

_The push backwards that makes you fall  
__The scars that you show  
__The lover that you hold  
__Is no more than a ghost_

_And I've seen the cold and the rain  
__And I pushed you back_

_But if you ever come back, if you ever come back  
__I will let you_

_Always_


	21. Is It Dark Where You Are?

Chapter 21 - Is It Dark Where You Are?

_I'm leaving._

His words lingered in her mind, his words and her response - _It's good that you're going_, taunting her with the fact that she ought to have meant it, _did _mean it, yet somehow couldn't quite convince herself that was the whole truth.

She wanted him, needed him to not be everywhere all the time; needed him not to be in Seattle or in her life; she needed to truly make a fresh start, in control, moving on or - she pressed her eyes closed and sighed, because she couldn't see yet what moving on might look like - whatever.

She just wished he hadn't sounded so tired, she wished she hadn't looked into his eyes. She had wanted him to notice her pain; she had never expected to notice his, and now, unwanted and uninvited, it haunted her.

The door of the ladies' room squeaked open and she jumped a little, shaken out of her thoughts. Women's voices talked and giggled softly, water ran in the sink, a toilet flushed and Meredith's nose caught a whiff of pine-scented toilet cleaner. She registered the hard, cold plastic of the toilet seat lid she was using as a seat and with it reality came flooding back.

It was good he was leaving.

That was the only possible reaction and anything else was just the ghost of something dead and gone, mixed up with adrenaline, alcohol and nostalgia. She'd loved him, she couldn't just forget that; but the reality, now, in the dregs of the present left over from a very different past, was that she was in Joe's bathroom, with a bad haircut she needed to grow out and a damaged life she needed to try and put back together. So, yes, it was good he was leaving.

* * *

Mark had left his car in the hospital parking lot. When he left Joe's, the weather was already full tilt into one of those Seattle downpours that soak through everything, and by the time he clicked the remote and unlocked the Porsche rain was collecting on the surface of his leather jacket and running down the back of his collar.

He could have called himself miserable, but he wasn't entirely sure he was capable even of that right now and, even if he had been, it wasn't an option. He felt dirty, guilty and wracked with love that he'd single-handedly lost, and none of that was an option either. Altruism had never been his strong suit and honesty compelled him to acknowledge that his own survival – the need not to die a little every time he watched Meredith hurt; the need to have some kind of a life, that he probably didn't deserve, but still kind of wanted – figured somewhere in his plans. But everything he was doing now, he was doing as much as for her as for himself: it would help her, and that's what he kept coming back to, that's why getting lost in feelings wasn't an option; it would help her, she'd even sort of acknowledged that.

_It's good you're going._

He had to keep it together. For her.

So even though he honestly didn't care that he was wet, he made himself remove his leather jacket, shake it out and place it on the back seat of the car; made himself turn on the seat warmer. He was acting _as if_, sure, but it was better than the alternative. This was not like the time Callie found him sitting in the rain. He wasn't losing it. He was capable of making good on his promise to leave Seattle and he kept telling himself that the entire drive home across town through the slick, emptying streets, anchoring himself and his thoughts to the beat of the windshield wipers as they cut through the pelting rain.

You take responsibility and you move forward.

* * *

"Meredith."

She pressed her eyes closed and took a breath for courage. She'd hoped she could get out of the bathroom and back to her table without this, but inevitably Derek was still at the bar, concern written all over his face (although she was relieved – at least, that's what she reminded herself – that it was _just_ Derek and that Mark was nowhere to be seen).

"I only have one first name, Derek." She congratulated herself on managing to sound exasperated, instead of just scared, exhausted and confused. "You're in serious danger of wearing it out." She tilted her chin and locked her gaze with his, challenging him to continue the conversation. "Is there something you want?"

He swallowed, half-shook his head in a habitual motion she knew was closer to _yes_ than _no_, and she let out an exaggerated sigh in response.

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," he said quietly, dropping his gaze to the bar for a moment, then looking into her eyes again.

"Seriously?" His eyes, his concern, the mixed feelings that she clearly wasn't his priority in all this but at the same time he seemed to care about her, were all too much to deal with and, against her will, she felt herself spin a little out of control, as she let out a rasp of a laugh. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you took his side!" Then she relented, reminding herself that she was supposed to be moving on, consciously softening her voice, "I'm sorry. It's . . . I . . ." She shrugged. "He's leaving. Let's just move on, okay?" She tried to smile, then began to walk away, but (of course) he spoke again and stopped her in her tracks.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Not quite sure how to respond, she raised an eyebrow and took refuge in wry humor at her own expense. "You don't think I've had enough?"

Derek shook his head slowly, this time a real, unambiguous _no_. "I'm not sure that matters," he said. "Not tonight." He sighed and smiled wearily. "He's been my friend for a long time, Meredith and –"

"Tequila," she accepted abruptly, not wanting to hear anything about his friendship with Mark, because clearly it trumped her right to be seen or heard or exist and having that stated one more time, explicitly, in words wasn't going to do anything for her fragile sense of making progress. "Just one." She slid onto the barstool next to him (his _other_ side, not the one where Mark had recently been sitting), ran her hands over her face and took another deep breath.

Derek called Joe over and ordered their drinks, then they sat, waiting in awkward silence, while Meredith stared at the bottles behind the bar and played with some abandoned peanut shells, and Derek absently studied his hands as they rested on the bar. There was nothing to say (well, nothing to say that could be said without opening another floodgate), but the place was still busy and Joe was fielding four orders at once, and the delay was unbearable, so Meredith searched her mind until she found something that stung, yes, but in the scheme of possible subjects was one of the easiest.

"How did the craniotomy go?"

"Good." Derek hesitated, almost swallowing the words as he added, "Very good. I was able to get the whole tumor and –" He broke off and shot a worried look in her direction, before finishing prematurely, "I was able to get the whole tumor."

"It's okay," she said softly, and strangely it almost was. "He's a nice man. He deserved the best. And he's . . ." She paused before making herself say his name out loud. "Mark's a great surgeon and Fisher really kind of isn't."

"The tissue expansion went well too," Derek said gently, the end of the sentence tapering off as silence fell again.

Now Joe was intervening in a dispute between one of his staff and a customer, so Meredith cast around for a new subject. An envelope lay on the bar between her and Derek, letter size, manila, looking official and surgical and safe, so she pointed to it.

"Is this something to do with the surgery?" she asked and reached out her hand. "Can I –?"

"No!" Derek's hand shot out and stopped hers with a force that shocked her. Their eyes met and Meredith stared, frozen as his expression turned from determination to apology. "I'm sorry," he said, awkwardly withdrawing his hand from hers, dragging the envelope a few inches away from her. "It's just." He shook his head. "Just, no, Meredith."

"O-kay." She lengthened the word sardonically. She could see that he was struggling with something, but the impact of his hand, the vehemence of his answer reminded her painfully of the reason why they were here now, why this was surreal and ridiculous, and why she didn't owe him any consideration. "So first I don't get my surgery, and now I don't get to see the super-secret neuro files." She began to swing off the barstool. "I don't need you to buy me a drink. We have plenty of tequila over -"

"It's not . . . what you think, Meredith," he broke in, his eyes searching hers almost nervously. "It's . . . " He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's psychiatric . . . it's something from Psych." He sighed deeply, then picked up the envelope and reached inside it, pulling out a small pile of what looked like photographs.

Slightly ashamed of her reaction, Meredith lowered herself back to her seat. "It's okay," she said. She understood only too well what it was like to have secrets you didn't want to share. "I thought it was neuro. I don't need to see something you don't want me to see."

"Sorry, guys." Joe barely broke the atmosphere between them as he placed a scotch and a tequila in front of them on the bar. "The place is insane tonight."

They both picked up their drinks, Meredith knocking back half of hers, Derek taking a couple of small, deliberate sips. Then he put down his glass and searched through the photographs, finally selecting one. "Here," he said, holding it out for her to take, his eyes avoiding hers.

"It's fine," she began. "Like I said –"

"Here," he urged, this time looking directly at her. "I think it's something you should see."

The photograph was of a little boy. Six, maybe seven years old; blonde, pale blue eyes. One hand was resting on a book and he was smiling, awkwardly, a little too forced perhaps for a child that age. But then, childhood was not always what it was cracked up to be; if anyone knew that, it was her. It was the standard elementary school picture: there was probably one of her around somewhere exactly like it, buried in the depths of her house. From the style, it looked kind of out-of-date, but it was in pristine condition, so it was hard to be sure.

Not understanding, she looked questioningly at Derek, and he licked his lips, pausing before he spoke.

"He was abused," he finally said, the words clipped and quiet. "His mother. She sexually abused him for years and no one did anything about it, no one did anything to help." He swallowed, picked up his drink and took another swig, sighing as he returned the glass to the bar.

"That's . . . horrible," she whispered, unable to take her eyes from the photograph. The boy looked so . . . innocent; innocent and like he was trying to be okay against the odds. "People can be horrible."

Derek nodded absently. "His father knew, I think. He was busy, though, doing things he considered more important. And the one person he tried to tell . . ." He closed his eyes and cleared his throat hard; when he opened his eyes again, Meredith could see a trace of tears. "The person he told was too young to understand. No one was there for him."

Pulled into the child's plight and moved by Derek's obvious distress, Meredith asked, "What happened to him?" She was suddenly desperately concerned for this little boy. She hadn't gone through what he had, but she understood being a lonely, frightened child and she couldn't help empathizing. There was something arresting about his eyes, something she thought she almost recognized. "You keep saying _was_," she said. "He _was_ abused. No one _was_ there for him. Did he die? Is that why Psych have the pictures? Are they treating the mother? Are you consulting?" He shook his head, but she was caught up in her own escalating thoughts. "Oh my God, Derek! Did she kill him?"

"He didn't die." The words came out thickly. "I'm not consulting." He paused, then turned towards her and looked at her intently, fresh tears welling behind his eyelashes. "It's not quite what I said. These pictures aren't from Psych." He swallowed. "He didn't die. He just grew up." He inhaled, let out the breath slowly then gestured to the picture in her hand. "It's Mark. That's a picture of Mark taken when he was six years old."

She thought her heart might have lurched. She thought, inside her chest, her heart might have lurched, then beat so hard and so fast it hurt. She knew she couldn't breath. She knew she'd taken a breath in and now couldn't quite let it out. But anything else was too much to take in right now, too much to notice. She dropped the picture on the bar, then immediately picked it up again. The little boy's eyes weren't just pale blue, they were grey-blue, a grey-blue she knew and . . . loved.

"He's . . . ?" It was all she could get out; she wasn't even sure what she intended to follow it with. "I . . . why didn't . . .? Why are you . . .?" She gaped at him stupidly.

He studied her for a moment, then said, as much to himself as to her, "I knew him. I knew him then. He was my friend, my brother and I never had any idea that this was going on. He tried to tell me. I was the person he tried to tell. When we were little kids; and then, later, I think he wanted to tell me on his seventeenth birthday." He laughed sadly and smiled a little. "God, you should have seen him when he was seventeen," he said. "He was the coolest guy I knew. He was the coolest guy _anyone_ knew." He swallowed. "I never had any idea he was one of the bravest." He pressed his eyes closed and sighed, bringing himself out of his thoughts. "Meredith, I'm not just on his side. If he ever hurt you again, he and I would be done for good. I promise you that. But he was never going to tell you what happened to him. _I_ was never going to tell you, because it's not my story to tell. But you saw the envelope, and I thought you should know. I thought I owed him for all the times I wasn't there." He inhaled. "Mark was abused for years. He blocked it out until he was seventeen, then he blocked it out again, until three weeks ago, when he . . . hurt you and everything came back so clearly he couldn't block it out again."

Meredith fingered the picture, unable to tear herself away from the child's (_Mark's_) eyes, hearing his voice accuse her:

_Because it's just about sex?_

He must have felt that way all his life. _That_ was his childhood and their last morning together, when she'd touched him and wanted him, he must have been lost somewhere dark in his past.

Except (she shook her head, trying to get some clarity) it hadn't been like that. He had blamed her, explicitly, spelling out his hatred for _her_ in words until it hurt almost as much, maybe even more than the physical attack.

"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked quietly. Her instinct was to call a cab and go to Mark right now, and it tore at her, but she couldn't do that; she, at least, had to be unequivocally on _her_ side. "Am I supposed to say it's okay? Am I supposed to say everything he did is okay because he had a bad childhood?" The understatement made her wince inside, but she stuffed the reaction back down. "I tried to forgive him. Twice. He didn't want that." She climbed off the barstool and drank down the remains of her tequila. "I'm glad, sort of, that you told me. So . . . thank you, I suppose. But I have no idea what to do with this . . . I just . . . I . . ."

All she really knew was that she couldn't be here any longer. There were too many contradictions cascading through her mind and watching Derek watch her wasn't helping with that. Without another word, she broke away from the bar and made her way as quickly as she could back to Cristina.

It was only when she sat down at the table that she realized she was still clutching the photograph in her hand.

* * *

Back at his house, Mark took a hot shower in the guest bathroom and changed into clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, focusing on the fact that he was still being rational and taking care of himself after the long day and the rain, pushing away the loneliness and regret that tried to assault him whenever he let his guard against his own mind down.

He wandered downstairs, aimless and numb for a few moments, until his stomach growled. His mind had lost the earlier desire for food, but his body hadn't, so he made his way to the kitchen, pulled out the required ingredients from the refrigerator and went through the process of turning things on and putting things together to make a grilled cheese sandwich and a pot of coffee. He ate quickly, standing up at the kitchen counter, then poured some coffee, but found himself hanging back as he tried to decide where to drink it. The couch was all memories of Meredith; the deck was wet and made him want cigarettes, to relive being in the boathouse and question his reasons for ever buying this damn house in the first place; neither place did anything for the baseline sanity he was trying to arm himself with. So he chose to stay in the kitchen, selected a medical journal from the piles of unopened mail left out for him by his housekeeper, and forced himself to sit down on a stool and act like the person he was trying – needed – to be.

* * *

"I didn't sleep with him, Meredith," Lexie said softly. "And he . . . he never tried anything with me. He –"

"Huh?" Immersed in thoughts and impulses and fears she couldn't separate from one another, Meredith raised her eyes from the picture in her hand to Lexie's face. "Oh." Comprehension dawned, a beat behind Lexie's words, and she shook her head distractedly. "Yeah. I know, Lexie. I was just . . ." She'd just wanted Mark to see her, get her, get what he'd done to her. The moment had passed now, her brain was racing and, anyway, she wouldn't know how to begin to explain it all to Lexie. "I know," she affirmed. "I'm sorry." She gave a smile that she hoped looked conciliatory and half-sisterly, before her eyes flickered magnetically back to the photograph.

"You want a drink, Mer?" Cristina picked up the tequila bottle and held it over Lexie's empty glass.

"No." Meredith shook her head again.

"No?" Cristina raised an eyebrow, the bottle still suspended in mid air.

Glancing quickly between Cristina and Lexie, Meredith made a decision. She needed help with this. She needed to share at least some of it and try to find a way through her desperate confusion. "Lexie, could you give us a minute?" she asked. "I need to talk to Cristina."

Lexie nodded, not quite looking at her, and began to stand up.

"Lexie?" Meredith offered softly. Lexie's eyes, trying to mask the hurt she obviously felt, met hers. "We should get that coffee I promised you. Soon, okay?"

She was rewarded with a small smile and a nod. "I'd like that," Lexie said, then left them alone.

For a moment, they sat in silence, while Meredith tried to find a way to begin. She squeezed her eyes shut for focus, then said, "I need to tell you something. I need to work out what I'm feeling and I need to say it out loud and you're the only person I can tell."

Cristina deposited the bottle on the table and pushed it aside. "Okay."

"The thing is, though. You can't say anything. I mean, obviously you can say _something_, because that's partly why I'm telling you. But you can't judge me . . . or Mark. That's not what I want or need and –"

"O-kay," Cristina repeated, clearly carefully suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

"Okay." Meredith swallowed. "You said I needed to stop pretending, right?"

Cristina nodded.

"And that time in the locker room, when I asked you if I should cut my hair, and Derek came in because Mark had disappeared." She paused. "You told me I still cared about him."

She waited for a response, and Cristina nodded again.

"Is that okay? I mean, if I still cared about him, would that be okay, or would that just be dumb and co-dependent and betraying myself?" She recognized that, as far as conversations out loud in words went, Cristina had no chance of understanding what she meant; but the whole time, there had been that unspoken recognition, the whole time Cristina had subtly offered advice and, when that became impossible, support. And she had to start somewhere, because this - the shame, the hurt, the confusion, the longing that wouldn't go away – was one of the hardest conversations she had ever had.

Cristina studied her for a moment, then said deliberately, "I don't think you have a choice. I don't think you ever stopped caring about him. Except," she paused, "he did something to you, right? Which I guess is why you're asking me what you should do."

Meredith's throat tightened. The best she could do at first was nod indecisively, then she whispered, "Yes." She had to look down at the table before she was able to add, "The morning we broke up . . ." She held her breath for a moment. "The morning we broke up, he . . . I mean he sort of . . . he attacked –"

"He raped you?" Cristina broke in harshly. "I freaking knew it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I –"

"Don't!" Meredith stopped her, suddenly fiercely protective – whether of herself, of Mark, of both of them, she wasn't quite sure. _She_ could use that word: in her own head, she could use it, but she didn't want to hear it said out loud. Especially not now. "Please don't say that again." Their eyes met across the table. "That's exactly what I meant about judging. I know what he did and I know how it looks and I know for a fact how I would react if our situations were reversed. But this is complicated, and if you make it _more_ complicated by judging things, I can't do this. And, Cristina, I really need to do this."

Cristina gave an angry, stifled swallow, then reluctantly muttered, "Okay," again.

"Okay then," Meredith breathed. "So that's what happened," she said as quickly as she could. "And we broke up. And I hated him, and then I thought I wanted to forgive him but he wouldn't let me, and then everything just built up and got worse and layers got uncovered in my head until . . ." She gave a rueful half-smile. "I cut off my hair and started making scenes in bars. But now there's this." With a last glance at it, she pushed the photograph across the table, as Cristina quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not supposed to know this, and I'm certainly not supposed to be telling you, so you have to keep it to yourself, okay?"

Cristina nodded again, stiffly and half-unwillingly, but enough of a nod to encourage Meredith to continue.

"This little boy?" She pointed awkwardly in the direction of the picture and swallowed hard. "It's Mark." Cristina widened her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but Meredith shook her head quickly then let the words tumble out. "It's Mark when he was little and, when this picture was taken, he was being sexually abused. His mother sexually abused him and –"

"Oh, please!" Cristina interrupted so explosively that she spluttered a little saliva across the table.

"Shut up!" Meredith replied equally forcefully. "Not judging! Especially not this!"

Cristina sniffed furiously, but complied.

"I know what you're thinking," Meredith acknowledged. "I know what you're thinking because I thought it, I _said_ it to Derek about ten minutes ago. But Mark didn't tell me, he never tried to make excuses, he thinks what he did is unforgiveable. And Cristina . . ." She swallowed and blinked away the tears that started to grow warm at the back of her eyes. "Look at this little kid. Just look at him. He was abused when he was too little to even know what was going on. And . . ." She inhaled deeply. "When I was yelling at him at the bar, his eyes . . . his eyes were just like this kid's. It was so bad, it put him the Psych ward. And now he says he's going to leave Seattle and I'm not exactly sure I want him to leave, and I think I might want to see him, talk to him." She inhaled again, before adding hesitantly, "I think you were right that I still care."

She paused, nervously watching Cristina's face contort through a silent conversation in her head, until she couldn't stand it any longer. "So what do you think?"

"Other than that I should call the Seattle PD?" Cristina asked dryly. "Or . . . oh, I know." She smiled maliciously. "I could get in on his next surgery and, oops, ever so accidentally stab him with a ten blade. But then," she raised an eyebrow to underline the sarcasm, "I suppose that would all fall in the category of judging him."

"Cristina," Meredith said in a low, gentle voice. "I get it. And thank you for putting up with me shutting you out, thank you for . . ." she shrugged, "just _everything_. But please . . . just put up with me for a minute longer and tell me if it's okay?"

Cristina let out a frustrated snort. "Well, clearly, it's not okay. It's so not okay it's off the freaking scale of not okay. But . . ." She inhaled, as Meredith held her breath, waiting for the answer. "You still care about him; you never stopped caring about him and, as much as I want to judge him and, God knows, _you_ for being an idiot, it's not really that simple, is it? So . . ." she shrugged, but her eyes grew clear and honest, "if you want to talk to him, I think you should probably talk to him."

Meredith finally breathed out. "I think that's what I want," she said hesitantly, then felt a spark of resolve and self-knowledge. "No, I don't _think_, I _know_. I'm scared, I'm really freaking scared, but I know I want to talk to him." She swallowed and looked intently at Cristina. "I want to see him tonight."

* * *

Eventually, it got too uncomfortable sitting up at the counter and, after a moment spent with his head in his hands, concentrating on keeping his mind calm, Mark stood up, refilled his coffee cup and carried it and the medical journal into the living room. He sat slowly down on the couch. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty space next to him where Meredith used to curl up. "It's too late, but I'm learning. I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

He leaned back and sipped at his coffee. Tomorrow he'd have to talk to a realtor about selling the house. Maybe he'd get rid of the car, too, because he honestly didn't have the energy to arrange shipping it back the other way. He remembered arriving in Seattle, chasing Addison, full of a kind of hopeless, self-destructive optimism, and wished he could turn back time, do it all differently; wished all this shit had come to the surface _before_ Meredith had gotten involved.

The doorbell rang, first just a single, startling sound, then a series of urgent chimes. _Who the fuck?_ He stood up wearily and walked into the hallway.

"Yeah?" he said, opening the door, but the word died on his lips when he saw her. Meredith. Her hair wet, huddled inside her coat with both hands jammed into the pockets.

She swallowed, straining not to blink or flinch, and looked into his eyes, chin tilted upwards to give herself strength. "I . . ." She faltered, then dragged one hand out of her pocket and, with it, a half-crumpled photograph, which she held out insistently until he reached out and she stuffed it into his palm.

It was the one of him as a kid in the school library. Somewhere behind the shock and humiliation the thought played itself out that it was funny how everyone chose the same picture. Maybe it summed him up. Because right now he felt every bit as exposed and bad and vulnerable as he had that day.

He glanced at her eyes, still fixed on his. "Derek?" he asked, registering the sting at the betrayal of confidence, but figuring, after all they'd been through, Derek thought he had a good reason. Anyway, nothing really mattered right now except her. She nodded and he mirrored the motion. "He shouldn't have told you. I—"

"No!" she broke in, her voice suddenly clogged and guttural with anger and distress. "_You_ should. You should have told me." Then she swallowed again and her eyes watered, her voice diminishing to a soft whisper. "Did she really? Do . . . _that_ to you?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He didn't know how to answer her. He'd spent the better part of twenty-four hours trying (succeeding, kind of) to pull it together, and in a few short moments she'd undone him. Now he stood, wanting to hold her, but feeling like even the smallest, most insignificant touch of his skin against hers would degrade her; wishing she wasn't there, had never come, but at the same time impossibly longing for her to simply walk through the door, stay with him and never leave again. He sighed, finally releasing a response of sorts. "Yes," his voice grated quietly. "But Derek should never have told you." He swallowed. "You should go," he said, although it nearly killed him. "You shouldn't be here. I can call you a cab or," he shrugged, "maybe Derek."

"I don't want to go," she said firmly. "I don't know how to be here with you, but I _do_ know I don't want to go." She paused, then added, half-soft, half-angry, "Do you really want me to?"

For what seemed like an eternity, Mark fought with himself, pitting conscience against desire, selfishness against what he thought was best for her, until finally the answer, the real honest answer slipped out hoarsely even though he tried until the last second to hold it back:

"No."

* * *

_Title song:_ _**The Longest Night**_, Howie Day

_Are you lost, where you are?  
__Can you find your way when you're so far?_

_It's enough, just to find love  
__It's the only thing to be sure of  
__So hard, to let go of  
__A thousand times or more  
__I was close to a fault line  
__Heaven knows, you showed up in time  
__Was it real?_

_You and I, caught in a fading light  
__On the longest night_


	22. In the Cyclone I Love You More

Chapter 22, In the Cyclone I Love You More

"So can I come in?" Meredith raised an eyebrow, half-tentative, half-defiant, entirely determined, breaking into the thoughts Mark was lost in.

He looked at her almost stupidly. Moments had ticked by since he told her he didn't want her to leave, moments while she stood on the damp porch and a kind of helplessness took hold of him. He wished to God he'd told her _yes_, that he wanted her to go, because nothing had changed. _One last chance_, he told himself. One last chance to do the right thing, change his answer and let her walk away for her own damn good. Except his messed-up heart still managed to override his better judgment.

"Yeah . . . yes. Of course," he roused himself, opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her come in. He tried not to, but couldn't help watching every small movement she made, couldn't help drinking in her presence, couldn't help feeling just a little elation – illicit and inappropriate as that was right now – that Meredith was here.

She slid past him, standing hesitantly in the hallway while he froze by the door. Her eyes searched his face quickly, flickered to the floor, then back again. "Can we talk?" she asked. "I think we need . . . _I _need to talk."

She looked so vulnerable, short hair wet and disheveled, eyes red around the edges, skin flushed. Christ! What was wrong with him? The longer he let her stay here the worse he continued to hurt her, not just in the past, but every moment in the present while he failed to let her go. He was so angry at himself; at Derek, for another stinging second – because what the fuck, seriously, what the _fuck _had gone through his head when he told her? Nothing that helped anybody, that was for damn sure! He inhaled and pressed his eyes closed and reassured himself that Derek _had_ to have meant well. Anyway, she was here, she knew, he'd told her he didn't want her to go and he'd have to take responsibility for that. If she wanted to talk, if that's what she needed, he could give that to her . . . _wanted_ to give it to her.

"Your hair . . ." he said, the words coming out mumbled and reticent, his eyes not quite meeting hers. He didn't know if she wanted his concern; didn't know if offering her _anything_ she didn't explicitly ask for was breaking a boundary he shouldn't cross, but maybe it was okay to offer her a towel. He gestured to his own hair to finish off the sentence.

"Yeah. I cut it." She gave a defensive shrug, followed by a quick, wry, desperate smile. "It sucks. I'm aware of that."

"It's fine," Mark said, fumbling in his head for a better adjective between all the thoughts and regrets that assaulted him. "It's . . . great." He felt stupid and ashamed for falling into this misunderstanding. Her hair was like an emblem of everything he'd put her through and, honestly, it wasn't that great. But the truth was? Whatever she did to her hair, she was Meredith and he loved her and he wished like hell he could tell her that and tell her she _always_ looked perfect to him. He shrugged gently. "I just meant it's kinda wet, though."

"Oh!" Her face flushed as she realized what he meant. "I guess it is." She glanced down at herself. "I guess _I_ am."

"You want me to fetch you a towel . . . or something?"

She half-nodded, half-shook her head, then finally came down on the side of acceptance. "Thank you."

Mark nodded back, swallowed awkwardly, then turned to go upstairs to the guest bathroom. Meredith hovered in the hallway and, halfway up the staircase, he stopped. "You can, uh . . ." He felt something like a nervous teenager on a first date and he clamped the feeling down, reminding himself, yet again, of the realities here. "You can go sit down if you want. There's, uh . . . " He rubbed the back of his neck, visions of caramel lattes – _If you love me you'll buy me a caramel latte -_ burning through his brain, "there's coffee if you want some."

She nodded quickly and murmured, "Okay," shifting from one foot to the other as Mark continued upstairs.

* * *

Left alone in the hallway, Meredith debated between the living room and the kitchen, eventually deciding on (or, really, just defaulting to) the kitchen. She peered out through the closed French doors at the dark water of the lake, brightened here and there with small rippling spots of light from the surrounding houses, trying to get a grip on her feelings.

She'd been scared when she made the decision to come here, scared in the cab, scared when she stood out in the rain for ten minutes before daring to ring the doorbell, but none of that came close to how scared she felt now - of herself, for herself, of and for Mark. Now she didn't know if she wanted to be angry or kind, hard or soft, demand an explanation or rewind history just enough that she could just be there for him.

Turning her back on the view outside, she faced the kitchen and took a deep breath. Her eyes rested on the familiar sight of the coffee pot and, somewhere between sadness and comfort at the memories it brought, she padded over to the counter, took a mug from the cabinet (careful not to choose her favorite), and poured herself a large, hot cup of coffee, then sat down at the counter and waited for Mark to return with the towel.

* * *

In the guest bathroom, Mark looked through the small supply of uniformly white, expensive, fluffy housekeeper-laundered towels that differed only by size, and wished he had something in some kind of color, something soft, inviting, that he could use to make subliminal amends.

For a moment, he wondered if it would be better if he just stayed up here until she figured out for herself that she'd be better off leaving. He didn't want her to have feelings tangled up in what they'd been; especially didn't want her to get sucked back into caring about him because of something he'd never wanted her to know.

Finally, though, he selected a thick, medium-sized towel and, bracing himself for the conversation to come, made his way downstairs.

He found her in the kitchen, sitting at the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that she was sipping from, and he couldn't help staring or the smile that found itself on his lips. She was sitting there almost like it was any other evening – any other evening _before_ – and it was more than he was capable of resisting.

"Hey," he said quietly and took a step towards her, offering her the towel.

Her head snapped up and the coffee mug thumped onto the counter as she blushed a furious shade of red. "Seriously?"

Mark winced inside. He hadn't really meant to recall the old, informal intimacy; but a part of him, the part that wasn't thinking, the part that couldn't resist had known perfectly well what he was doing. "I didn't mean . . ." But he _did_ and, like everything else between him and her, he wished like hell he could take it back. "Sorry," he said, like a confession, the skin on his cheeks growing warm as he held the towel out a little further and took a few steps towards her.

She stretched forward, took the towel and began to rub her hair dry, her head disappearing for a few seconds under the expanse of soft, white material.

"It's okay," she said, her voice slightly muffled. "You didn't ask me to come. I forced my way in here more or less and, you know . . ." She emerged from the towel and put it down on the counter. "I don't have the right to get upset." She seemed to be trying to convince herself. "I don't have the right –"

"Yeah you do," Mark broke in. "You have the right to do or say or be anything you want when it comes to me." He swallowed. "I don't think you should be here. I didn't want you to know about what happened to me and I would never have told you. Never in a million years. But . . ." He paused. "You know and you're here and I," he shrugged and forced a kind of smile, "sorry son-of –a-bitch that I am, am having a really hard time separating what's real from everything I screwed up. And," he shook his head, "you have the right."

Meredith nodded slightly, then inhaled. Her eyes rested on Mark's. "Okay," she said, her voice deliberate and soft. "But . . . what" she hesitated, "happened to you. It _happened_. And you should have told me. We were . . ." she shook her head, "we were . . ."

_Everything,_ Mark answered silently in his head.

"And you should have told me for your sake, because it's horrible, it's so freaking horrible what she did to you. But, seriously," her eyes accused him and pleaded with him at the same time, breaking his heart again, "you should have told me for mine too, because –"

"It's so horrible what I did to you?"

She paused for long time before quietly stating, "Yes."

Mark nodded, his heart feeling like a lead weight in his chest. "The thing is, Mer . . . Meredith," his voice battled between profound gentleness for her and anger, disgust and pain for himself, "neither of those, _neither_ of those is forgivable." He looked down, needing to separate himself from her eyes for a moment, then gestured towards the French doors. "I'm gonna go outside," he said. "If you still want to talk, I'm not gonna ask you to leave. I'm not gonna ask you for anything. But," he shrugged, "I'm giving you an out, okay? You don't need to feel bad for me over something you had nothing to do with." He paused. "There's a big difference between a picture of a little kid and the grown man who betrayed your trust."

He went out through the French doors, closing them behind him. It was still raining, fat wet drops pouring down onto the wooden deck. For a second, he stood in the downpour, partly helpless, partly relieved by the freshness of the rain against his skin, until he retreated under the narrow eaves that lined the wall, taking shelter.

* * *

Seated at the counter, alone again, Meredith tried to clear her head. This wasn't what she came here for but, honestly, what was she expecting? Maybe he was right. Maybe there was just too much difference between the little boy in the picture and the man who pinned her arms to a bed, scathed her with his words, then cut her out of his life.

Except they both broke her heart. Mark then, Mark now – he broke her heart with his sadness, his loneliness, his insistence that he couldn't be forgiven. And once, not all that long ago, he had warmed her heart and every other part of her, all the places she never let anyone in, and she couldn't just forget that. She couldn't just forget what they'd been.

Slowly, she slid down from her stool at the counter and made her way to the French doors. For a moment she paused again, her hand poised on the frame, listening to the little voice in her mind that wondered if she was crazy and telling it, finally, no. She wasn't leaving and he wasn't sending her away again. Whatever they were going to do – and, honestly, she had no clear idea what that was – they were doing it by mutual consent this time.

As she emerged onto the deck, she felt her heart rate quicken. Again, it was all so familiar, so _loved_. She'd been so comfortable and welcome in this house before . . . well, until she wasn't, and now the memories, good and bad, tore at her.

Mark was leaning against the wall, sheltering from the rain, as he stared out across the lake and she had to clear her throat softly to get his attention. "Hey," she said, trying for some kind of reconciliation, coughing a little as the word suddenly seemed too exposed halfway out of her throat, shrugging as he turned his head to look at her. Glancing up at the rain, she found a place a few feet away from him under eaves. "I don't want an out," she said. "If I did, I wouldn't have come here. And if you did you wouldn't have let me in." She shook her head. "I don't know exactly what I _do_ want. I don't know what I expect out of this. And maybe it's just too hard to go back, or forward or . . . whatever. But I don't stop thinking about you . . . ever. And you?" She swallowed helplessly, falling back on the question that had begun this entire thing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He didn't know how to answer her. She was being so honest, so gentle, making herself vulnerable in ways he didn't come close to deserving; and he owed her, she had the right to an answer. "Did I ever tell you why I bought this house?" he asked her, turning back to face the lake. It was a deflection, but he was working up to _something_, some kind of truth that didn't give him too much credit, or hurt her too much.

She shook her head and mouthed _No_.

"I liked the lake," he said. "I didn't really care about the house. I mean, I wanted a house. It seemed like something, I don't know . . ." he shook his head, "positive, and this one was kinda nice. But really I just liked the lake. The whole time I was here with Addison, she walked around checking baseboards and square feet and shit and I pretty much just stood in the kitchen looking out the window." He swallowed, and turned his head sideways, glancing at her to see how she was receiving this so far. When she smiled quickly, he made himself go on. "We . . . they . . . my parents . . ." He swallowed again. "There was . . . _is_ this lake behind my parents property. Not exactly theirs, but they have rights to use it. They never did. But whoever owned the place before them must've and so . . ." His shoulders began a shrug that turned into a sharp flinch, as he struggled with the memory and revealing it to Meredith. She already knew the worst part; this was just about a damn boathouse. Except it was so much more than that. The boathouse, his house, the lake: he'd always thought he'd had a choice about how he lived his life (for better or for worse), and now it all felt like something that was chosen for him, something inevitable and fucked up and conditioned. He inhaled and made himself go on. "There was . . . fuck _is_," it was so hard to acknowledge any of this in the present, but he had to. He had to keep moving forward; he had to take responsibility; he had to deal with this crap and, at the same time, let her know what he was dealing with so she could understand, without a doubt, that he was no good for her. "There _is_ a boathouse on their property, by the lake. And I," he glanced at her again, "I used to go there to be by myself, you know? When stuff got bad." He inhaled, bracing himself. "I used to go there to hide from my . . ." the word caught in his throat worse than ever spoken out loud in front of Meredith, "mother."

Meredith breathed in softly, sympathetically, melting Mark, but at the same time making him feel so ashamed that he'd dragged her into this; that she saw and understood how defenceless he'd been.

"When I was older," he shot her a wry smile, "I used the place to screw girls. Just so you don't get too hung up on me being the innocent victim here."

She swallowed. She knew what he was doing. He hurt desperately; most of him wanted her here; but deflection was his M.O., one that she was all too familiar with.

"So you're _fine_?" she said, as gently as possible, but raising an eyebrow slightly to emphasize her point.

Across the distance that separated them, he stared at her, eyes piercing hers. "I thought I chose," he said gruffly. "I thought I chose . . . the women, the sex, being an ass." He swallowed. "Addison. This house. My whole fucking life. Shit, I probably don't even have a good reason for being a surgeon. In fact," he snorted, "I know I don't. Derek wanted to be a doctor and I didn't know what the fuck I wanted, but I had the grades, and copying Derek always had seemed like the best way out of my shitty life, so . . ." He breathed in, feeling tears prickle his eyes, refusing to cry for himself in front of her. "I can't trust myself. I can't trust myself around anything or anyone and especially not around you. And you . . ." He pressed his eyes closed briefly. "I'm just gonna say it, so you know. I love you. I never stopped loving you and, probably, I never will. But you don't need this, you don't need me, and you need to get that."

He turned away from her, back towards the lake, deliberately shutting her out for her own good.

A lump caught in Meredith's throat, a bewildering mixture of anger, pain and a love that she didn't quite want to give into again but didn't seem to have the power to stop. Tears formed in her eyes. "You chose _me_."

Mark sighed. "You think so? You don't think you're just something else Derek had and I –" He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he said. "That's bullshit. I've even been over it with my shrink and it's bullshit. I know that." He swallowed. "Of course I chose you. Of course I . . ." He trailed off helplessly but finished the sentence in his head, _I'd choose you now if I hadn't fucked it all up_. "But I don't trust myself. I don't trust anything that's in my head. And you shouldn't either. That's the whole point."

She nodded shakily. "I know," she said. "I'm not even sure that I do. But . . . it turns out I can't stop caring about you. Because I chose you too." She straightened her spine, huddling into her sweater against the damp air, shrugged and gave a kind of smile.

"Yeah. You did. And that was . . ." He shook his head; he didn't know of a word, couldn't even imagine one that would express what he wanted to say. Once upon a time he could have taken her to bed and shown her what he felt, but that felt like a lifetime ago. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Mer. But," he made himself look into her eyes, "that was before." He felt tears emerge in his eyes again and, once more, forced them back. "Like I said, it's not forgivable."

Meredith inhaled, audibly sucking the air through her nose, trying to deal with the feelings that blasted through and not just say, or do or scream the first thing that came into her head. She had to remind herself that she was one who'd initiated this. He hadn't told her; he hadn't asked her for anything; he'd made it clear, more than once, that he didn't want and couldn't accept her forgiveness, but –

"Seriously? You're seriously telling me, _again_," she rolled her eyes, "it's not forgivable? Because, excuse me, but . . ." she shook her head, trying to understand what it was she wanted to say, what it was she wanted, finally exploding, "I don't think that's your call! I don't think you get to say whether it's forgivable or not."

"Meredith –" Mark began, but she silenced him.

"Shut up! Just shut up, okay? Just stop telling me what I need to get, and what I should and shouldn't do, because . . . seriously!" She paused as the recognition of what she was about to say fully penetrated her mind a split second before she hoped it penetrated his, "Wasn't it . . . _isn't_ it obvious that I love you? Isn't it obvious that I stayed . . . I tried to fucking stay, I tried to forgive you minutes . . . fucking minutes after you . . . .after you," she took another huge breath and fiercely exhaled the word, both ashamed of it and wanting to state her truth, all of her truths, "raped me?"

Mark recoiled inside, but fought back any outward reaction. She deserved to get to use the word and, in some strange way, it was a relief to get to hear her say it. Except she wasn't done, she was still talking.

"Wasn't it obvious when I . . . and God, trust me, it took a lot, it took almost everything I have . . . when I visited you in Psych, and got checked out by your shrink and fell asleep in your freaking room because, in spite of everything, where you were was the most comfortable place in the world for me to be? Isn't it obvious _now_?" Tears gathered in her eyes and mucus blocked her nose. She sniffed hard then demanded, "It's not forgivable? It's not forgivable what you did? Then stop doing it, stop replaying it, stop pushing me away every way you know how." She paused, slightly out of breath, waiting for a reaction, then swallowed. "I think I just said I still love you," she said.

Any relief Mark had felt a moment ago was nothing compared to what he felt now. Relief mixed with . . . hell, so many emotions he couldn't give names to and the feeling that he hadn't heard her right.

"Is that okay?" she asked, half-pleading, half-confronting him. "If I still love you?"

He swallowed. "Yeah," he whispered, more a question than a statement, as he caught up with what she'd said and what he felt.

"Well, okay then," Meredith said. Then suddenly overwhelmed, needing a moment, she looked around for a temporary escape route. "I need coffee," she said, pointing towards the kitchen, before she fled inside.

* * *

Mark was stunned. His head had been so full of words and images and memories for weeks now – for a lifetime, if he was honest; now, it felt empty, purged, numb but in a good way, like he was balancing on the brink of the rest of his life.

When he finally went back inside, she was at the counter again, again cradling a coffee mug, peering at him over the rim.

"Hey." He smiled.

She raised an eyebrow and returned the smile. "Hey," she replied as she put down her cup. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry to say this now but I just need to get . . ." she pressed her eyes closed. "I just need to get this last thing off my chest and then . . ." She inhaled. "I still don't get why you didn't tell me. I still don't get –"

"I didn't want you to know," Mark said. "I didn't want it to be an excuse. That's the truth. But . . ." He sighed. "I'm a wreck, Mer. I guess you always knew that because, whatever I told myself I didn't do a really good job hiding it. But . . ." His throat constricted and tears formed in his eyes. "I don't know who I am. I had an idea of myself . . . sort of, and now . . ." His vision blurred behind the moisture and he pressed his hands to his eyes trying to stop the tears. "I'm ashamed, you don't know how fucking ashamed, and I'm angry and I feel like everything I do is tainted. Everything I do, good or bad or any-goddamn-where in between goes back to me and her and what she did to me and I didn't want you to see that, I didn't want you to see any more than you already have of how fucked up I am. Except now . . ." He felt moisture on his face and swiped his hand roughly over the tears, breathing in hard.

Meredith swallowed, tears forming in her own eyes, and slid down off the stool. She walked over to Mark and stopped a few feet in front of him. "It's okay," she said. "You're forgiven. I forgive you."

He still shook his head, trying to force back tears that only came harder and faster in response, until eventually she said very softly, "How about you cry for me and I cry for you?" and allowed her own tears to fall with his. She moved closer and put her hand carefully on his arm and they stood like that for several minutes.

Finally, Mark raised his head, eyes clearing. "Thank you," he said. "And you're right. I should've told you." Slowly, he reached out a hand towards her, partly as a reflex, partly conscious of the privilege of having her forgiveness, of having her here again and being able to contemplate touching her. Her hair was all messed up and he wanted to push it behind her ears. She watched him, anticipating, smiling almost. But at the last moment, as the side of his hand brushed her skin, she flinched and pulled back, just a little, but just enough.

"Sorry," he said, rapidly removing his hand and dropping his gaze to the floor.

"No," she said. "It's me. It's . . ." She sighed in frustration at herself. "I wanted you to. I _want_ you too. It's just -"

"It's okay," Mark broke in, raising his head and looking into her eyes. He wasn't quite sure how to navigate what he was feeling. He felt like he should be disappointed, crushed, hating himself for having expectations of her that no sane person would have right now. Ashamed and right back where he started with the same old shit. Except he wasn't. All he could see was Meredith, standing in front of him, trusting him as far as she could. And that was enough. She'd been there for him, over and over; she taken this screwed up disaster and turned it around for both of them. Now he wanted to be there for her; and not just _wanted_ to, knew that he was capable of it. "It's okay," he said again softly, giving her a little space.

* * *

Later, when Meredith woke up on Mark's couch, curled in the corner, covered with the soft blue cashmere throw, she thought at first she was dreaming. Then she remembered - the bar, the cab ride, the rain, here, now, the fact that she knew she loved him. She looked around, taking in the softly lit room, the warmth, the very faint sound of a late-night car passing in the wet street.

"You okay?" Mark asked. He was sitting at the other end of the couch, keeping his distance, watching over her as she slept.

She thought for a second. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm . . . " She shook her head. "I'm still not quite there. I'm not quite there, but I'm _almost_. I'm _so_ almost it's . . ." An impulse overtook her and she reached out, stretching out her hand, until he understood the invitation and took it in his.

"You sure?" he asked as she moved a little closer.

"Even more almost," she said softly, smiling a little, allowing herself to feel almost safe again.

_You take responsibility and you move forward,_ Mark heard in his head. He'd just never expected it to feel this good, he'd never expected any of this ever again, he'd never expected _almost_ and the feel of her hand in his and yet, here she was, here they were. Her head drooped and as she dozed off again, she leaned towards him. It took his breath away. He tried not to move, not to do anything to disturb her, most of all not to fall asleep himself and miss her, not get to watch her, worst of all dream some fucked-up dream and run the risk of messing this all up again. But in the end he couldn't resist the drowsiness and drifted into sleep himself. Peaceful. With Meredith. Almost.

* * *

_Title song: __**Northwestern Skies**_, Tired Pony

_It's not like it was before  
__There's a beauty in slamming doors  
__And the lightning plays in your eyes  
__As it cracks through Northwestern skies.  
__Girl you were beautiful before  
__But in the cyclone I love you more.  
__There's a pause in the faintest smile  
__As the storm rages on for miles_


	23. I Need Your Grace

Chapter 23 – I Need Your Grace To Remind Me To Find My Own

"Meredith."

Mark spoke her name so quietly that it was more his breath on her forehead than the actual sound that broke into her sleep.

"Mmmn." She stretched, not really waking up yet, eyes still closed, mind still half-wrapped up in slumber, half-thinking itself awake. There was something about his voice when it was really quiet: deep, gruff, with a trace of insecurity, like it came from a place where self-loathing and sexy had somehow gotten confused. Which, now that she knew his whole story, wasn't exactly unexpected - _Oh, God!_ All the events of last night came back to her. She opened her eyes, flailed around a little to extract her shoulders and hands from folds of cashmere, and pushed herself up against the side of the couch.

"Good morning," she rasped, then cleared her throat to get rid of the sleep in her voice, instinctively clawing her hair into some semblance of order.

"Hey," he said, still quiet, smiling at her cautiously but with all his heart, looking so reminiscent of the little boy in the picture she almost couldn't bear it. "Uhm, here." He handed her a mug of coffee, carefully holding the opposite side to the handle, burning himself rather than her and avoiding any accidental brushing of hands. "I thought you might like . . ." He trailed off uncertainly, adding an awkward, redundant, "Yeah," as she grasped the mug.

"I _do _like," she said, smiling broadly, trying to instil confidence into the situation – for both of them. "Coffee is always good." She took a couple of sips and sighed with pleasure that was partly to reassure him but mostly genuine. "You make great coffee."

She glanced towards the large living-room windows. The rain had stopped and the sky was in gray semi-darkness with streaks of light beginning to appear. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Around five," Mark said, taking a sip of his own coffee.

Meredith nodded. "I could . . . I mean if you wanted, I could go in late." She quirked an eyebrow slightly and smiled. "I think this is probably a big enough thing to warrant a little personal time. Especially when I worked . . . in fact, worked _a lot _every day since we . . . well, you know . . . " now it was her turn to be awkward, " broke up."

He swallowed. "You don't have to be tactful, Mer," he said. "You can call by its -"

"I _did_, remember?" she broke in, gentle but firm. "And it helped. But I'm . . . _we're_ not using that word again, okay?" She gave him a quick, tense smile and he nodded, avoiding her eyes but grateful. "So like I was saying, we could go in late and we could," she shrugged, "sleep a little more, spend some time together, have breakfast," she inhaled, "talk, maybe. And then I could go in with you." She searched his face for a response, but it was blank, and she began to falter. "Or, you know, something."

"Yeah, I . . ." Mark was struggling to keep up with her, slowly processing the words _we could spend time together_, spoken by Meredith Grey, in his house, to _him_; in fact, processing the whole concept of her making arrangements with him, forgiving him over and over. "You want to stay here? Spend time with me?"

Meredith nodded. "What did you think?"

He didn't know how to answer that question. He hadn't gotten as far as thinking; hoping, maybe. But bit-by-bit it was getting through to him that she really meant this and kept on meaning it. "That would be great.' He couldn't quite look at her and, feeling entirely too much to express in words, he scratched his ear uncomfortably and repeated, "That would be . . ." before he changed the subject to something a little easier. "Thing is, I can't really go in late." He raised his eyes to hers and smiled ruefully. "It's only my third day back at work."

"Your famous surgery doesn't make a difference?" She only registered a trace of yesterday's resentment in her voice once the words were out of her mouth. She hadn't intended it and she rolled her eyes and smiled. "Sorry. Yesterday was . . . well, it was a lot different from today."

"No." Mark shook his head. "It's me that should be sorry. He was your patient. We just couldn't . . . I couldn't . . . " He looked at her pleadingly, hoping she'd understand. His life was made up of so many intertwined layers of fucked-up-ness; yesterday he'd had to make at least one of them work.

"I know. I know _now _anyway. Yesterday maybe not so much." She laughed softly. "So I can't corrupt you then?"

"I wish. But one surgery – even _that_ one – doesn't exactly stack up against . . . " He sighed deeply and shook his head. "Christ, I've been a fucking liability ever since I arrived in Seattle." _Make that my whole fucking life_, he thought, but managed to keep it to himself, only letting out a stifled groan. His _default position of punishing himself _wasn't a place he wanted to go right now, especially not with Meredith sitting there trying so hard. He inhaled and made himself smile. "I _can_ make you breakfast, though. If you want. You hungry?"

Meredith couldn't really remember the last time she'd considered food as anything but an infrequent obligation, but suddenly she felt starving.

"I haven't got much," Mark went on, pleased at the prospect of doing something nice for her, even something this insignificant. "But there's cereal or . . . hey, you know what? I could make you a grilled cheese sandwich." He laughed softly at his own expense. "They're kind of all I've been eating lately, so you can consider me an authority."

"I would _love_ a grilled cheese sandwich!" She pushed aside the throw and got up from the couch, bringing her coffee with her as they walked through to the kitchen. At the door, she stopped and cleared her throat. "You're not a liability," she said softly. "You're a brilliant surgeon and everyone at Seattle Grace knows that. You're a brilliant surgeon and you're . . . " She faltered for a second. She'd more or less said _I love you _last night and, even if she hadn't, those words would be too easy; they wouldn't convey enough of the good or bad or the whole. "You're the man who taught me how to love."

She looked down, as if her own words were too much for her; and Mark got that, because they were certainly too much for him. Every muscle in his body was close to quivering and he hoped to God she could see past his what to what he felt inside. When she looked up into his eyes, he knew she could, and he let out a shaky breath. "Breakfast?" he said, almost inaudibly, and she nodded again and followed him into the kitchen.

Mark opened the refrigerator and began pulling out sandwich ingredients, arranging them on the counter; a jar in the back of the fridge caught his attention and he reached for it. "Apparently I have pickles. You want pickles for breakfast?" He turned around and made an expression very close to his old grin.

"Why not?"

He opened the jar and peered inside. "They might be kinda old," he said. "I honestly don't remember the last time I ate pickles."

Meredith shrugged. "They're pickled," she said, laughing slightly. "Isn't that, like, the whole point of pickles? Anyway," she scrunched up her forehead, remembering, "I think I bought them. In fact, I know I did, and I ate one when you went in for the emergency surgery with Alex, so they're like -" She broke off and inhaled as the mundane memories unraveled into how that day ended.

"Around four weeks old," Mark supplied softly.

"Yeah," she breathed, then swallowed and forced a smile. "So they're good," she said. "And I'd love a pickle."

He handed her the jar and then went back to the business of making sandwiches. He was desperately nervous, but this felt really good - so much better than last night when he was alone. "There's this deli in Manhattan, close to Mount Sinai, where they have the best pickles," he said, his subconscious pushing him to say what he couldn't quite bring himself to until he blurted, "I don't want to go back there, Mer." He braced himself self against the counter, inhaled, then turned around to face her. "I will if you need me to, but there's nothing there for me, no one, just bad memories and I –"

"You think I want you to leave? Have you been listening?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "I _hoped_ you didn't want me to? I. . ." He lowered his eyes, "I don't want to take you for granted."

"Well, that's . . . thank you," she said. "But as far as you leaving goes, you can take me for granted as much you want." Mark looked up at her and she nodded encouragingly. "I don't want you to leave. And just so we're clear, that's not just this morning; it's not just because I know about your mother. Last night, when you told me you were leaving, I went and sat in the Joe's restroom and I told myself it was a good thing, but I didn't believe that, and I didn't know why the hell not or what to do with that, but that didn't change the fact that, even then, even when I was telling myself I hated you, I didn't want you to leave. So please don't, okay? Please stay and work this out, all of it, however long it takes and . . ." She shrugged and smiled. "You'll just have to endure the Seattle pickles. Anyway," she peered at the label, "it says these were made in New York."

Mark stared at her, unable to make his voice work. Life had never cut him a break, never given him a second chance at anything that would've made a difference. Now everything, everyone, most importantly Meredith was helping him come back from what he thought he'd lost and screwed up and (yeah, he'd allow himself that) suffered. Then he managed:

"You want to ride into work with me?"

She said, "Yes," like it was something they did everyday.

The pounding in his heart and the smile on his face wouldn't have been greater if he'd just proposed marriage and she'd accepted.

* * *

Putting the car into first gear at a traffic light, Mark's hand fumbled against Meredith's knee. He hadn't tried to touch her again since the previous night and he abruptly retracted his hand, mumbling, "Sorry," as his face flushed hot with embarrassment, until he realized that Meredith hadn't flinched this time or moved away from him. She was just sitting next to him calmly and, when he glanced sideways at her, smiling.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm," she considered, "getting there. I mean, you might have to . . . I don't know, help me. I might not be ready for everything, exactly. But you can touch me. Especially by accident. On purpose, even and . . . we'll deal with it. Okay?" As if illustrating, she placed her hand on his thigh and gave a little squeeze.

"Okay." Mark swallowed, overcome once more by how much she was willing to do for him. He stared out through the windshield as emotion after emotion coursed through him. He felt ashamed, grateful, undeserving, but behind all of that there was a sense of real happiness. His heart was racing and he recognized the signs of adrenaline running through his bloodstream as the happiness turned into a kind of euphoria, and a wickedly playful thought – shit, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had one of those – entered his mind. "You know, when you showed up last night," he began, "and you said Derek told you about what happened to me, I was kinda pissed at him. I mean . . . I didn't want you to know, for all the reasons I said. No one knows except Derek and my shrink and Mrs. Shepherd –"

"Mrs. Shepherd? Derek's mom?"

"That's another story. I went to New York to get pictures and," he shrugged, "I ended up at her place."

"That's where you went? Derek was –"

"He told you about that too?" Mark asked, briefly taking his eyes off the road and widening them at her incredulously.

"He was worried," she said. "Okay, I didn't like it at the time, and it may have been the final straw that made me get my tragic haircut," she grimaced and ran a hand through the short strands. "He didn't mean to hurt you. Or me."

"Yeah, I know. Derek's been great through all this. It's just . . . " He raised an eyebrow. "He spilled my deepest, darkest personal details, when I'd already made it clear I didn't want to tell you."

"Are you mad at him?" Meredith asked. "I mean, I would get that. I've been mad at him for weeks now. I was mad at him last night. But," she shrugged, "it kind of worked out, didn't it? I don't think we'd be here now without him."

"Yeah," Mark said softly. "I'm not mad. I'm . . ." He shook his head. "I would never have gotten here by myself. He did a really good thing. But," he glanced at her, letting a smirk creep onto his face, "it could be fun to fuck with him a little bit."

* * *

Before they went inside the hospital, Meredith put a hand on Mark's arm. "Should we meet after work?" she asked. "Dinner, maybe?"

He nodded. Outside the private refuge of the car he was beginning to be unsure of himself again. What was holding him together, though, was that he felt absolutely sure of _her_. "Dinner would be great," he said. "You feel like Chinese takeout at my place?"

For a moment, she hesitated. Chinese food at Mark's house had been the plan she never showed up for on the night she almost cheated on him. But she reminded herself that Chinese takeout was his default suggestion whenever dinner plans came up and smiled.

"I do," she said deliberately, "I –" She broke off when she caught him staring hard at her, unable to take his eyes off hers and obviously holding his breath.

"What?" she asked. "Is everything all -?"

"You said even on purpose, right? Me touching you?"

Meredith nodded cautiously, feeling her throat contract with a kind of fear mixed with anticipation.

Very slowly, as though he was about to handle something deeply delicate and breakable, Mark moved his hand towards her face. He stopped just short of the skin on her cheek, his eyes seeking her permission one final time.

She swallowed and nodded, trying hard not to brace herself. His fingers brushed gently against her face and she trembled, though she honestly couldn't tell at this point whether it was from fear or excitement as, his confidence growing, he slid his hand to the side of her neck, firmer now, and wrapped his fingers through the ends of her hair.

Their eyes locked.

"I've wanted to do that since yesterday, by the OR board," he said. "I'm sorry for . . ." he inhaled, "I'm sorrier for everything than I'll ever be able to tell you. But it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna try and make it okay." He glanced down and then grinned slightly. "My shrink has this thing about moving on and taking responsibility. The last few days I kept repeating it to myself in my head. And . . ." He trailed off, lost in her eyes and the impossibility of his own thoughts.

"Yes?" she prompted, for the first time leaning her head slightly into his touch.

"I was trying to do that by myself. Now you're here," he swallowed, "it means even more." He removed his hand from her neck and ran it through his hair. "What I'm trying to say is – I'm damaged and I scared shitless and I'm guaranteed to screw up all the fucking time. But I will never hurt you again and I'm really gonna try to get it right this time." He scanned her face nervously. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"And that was?" he gestured towards the side of her neck where she could still feel the warmth of his hand. "That was okay?"

"I liked it."

"Okay." He pointed to Seattle Grace's main entrance, "I should work before the Chief changes his mind and gives my job to Fisher permanently," he said, then smiled quickly and turned to go.

Meredith watched him walk into the building, taking advantage of a few minutes alone to catch up with everything that had changed literally overnight. She pressed her eyes closed, taking a long, deep breath. When she opened them again, expecting to see the an expanse of concrete, trees and glass façade, her view was blocked almost entirely by Cristina, standing way too far inside her personal space.

"You're back with him?"

Meredith was torn between stifling a laugh and sobbing with gratitude: Cristina's face was almost rigid with the obvious effort of not judging what she desperately wanted to judge. "Are you spying on me?"

"No, I'm not _spying _on you," Cristina said emphatically, using the reaction as an outlet for her anger and protectiveness.

Now Meredith couldn't help laughing softly. "You're just _not judging_," she said. "If it kills you, right?"

"I decided," Cristina enunciated slowly, as though reciting a rehearsed speech that she didn't really want to give, "that you have a point. What happened to him makes it . . . different. Unless he pulls anything like that again. In which case," the corners of her mouth turned up in a half-cold, half-playful smile, "I'll have no choice but to locate the nearest scalpel and emasculate him slowly and painfully."

"He's trying," Meredith said softly. "He hates himself for what he did and it's so hard for him, and he's really trying. And, yes, there are parts of this that are really hard for me and scary, but," she swallowed, then whispered, "it's good being back with him. It was good being in his house and sleeping on his couch and . . .," she was at a loss for what else to say to describe what made so much sense to her, "he made me breakfast."

"Oh, they all make breakfast," Cristina scoffed. "Burke made me breakfast. Breakfast is easy. It's the not arranging ridiculous weddings and then abandoning you part that's hard." She raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Meredith, "The not turning into a violent psycho over the second cup of coffee part –" She broke off and muttered under her breath. "Not judging, not judging, not freaking judging."

Meredith threaded an arm through Cristina's. "Thank you," she said softly as they walked into the building together.

* * *

Mark sighed as he read the chart. "Care to enlighten me as to why Fisher switched her dressings, Grey?" It was obvious that Fisher's real reason was to go against him, but he hoped the guy at least had some kind of medically sound rationale as a cover story. "He didn't seem to feel the need to elaborate here."

"He said composite dressings were standard for second degree burns before you took over as Head of Plastics," she said. "Because biosynthetic dressings have too much allergenic potential and he didn't want to risk that." She swallowed, then added a nervous, "Dr. Sloan."

"Was there any evidence of an," _incredibly fucking rare_, "allergic reaction?" Mark demanded irritably.

"No, Dr. Sloan." Lexie shook her head.

"And yet risking infection, prolonged healing time and skin grafts was preferable?"

"I don't know," she said and swallowed, but then found her voice. "She just hasn't been healing very well and I thought you should take a look."

Mark nodded. He wasn't Head of Plastics again yet, but Dr. Wyatt had said it was in the works. And this was an eleven-year-old kid they were talking about; plus Lexie's trust in him made him feel he had to step up.

"Okay." He scribbled quickly on the chart and signed it. As he handed it to Lexie, he grinned. "You get that, when Fisher comes after me, I'm gonna say you made me do it, right? I'm not above blaming an intern."

Shock appeared on her face, followed by indignation, followed by a blush and a smile. "You're joking," she said, breathing out.

"You better hope so," Mark teased her, as they walked into the patient room.

"Hi, Lauren," Lexie said cheerfully. "This is Dr. Sloan. He's the doctor who helped you when you first arrived here."

"I'm just gonna take a look at your legs," Mark said quietly, his self-assurance taking a hit as he saw the apprehension in the kid's eyes. She'd moved him when he first treated her; he could remember almost crying as he dressed her burns; now he realized she'd reminded him too damn much of himself.

"Grey," he said gruffly. "Could you . . . ?" He tried to indicate with his eyes that she should talk to the kid or do something to make this easier, and Lexie immediately understood.

She picked up two books with colorful covers from the nightstand. "These are new, aren't they, Lauren?" she asked and Mark let out the breath he'd been holding as the little girl smiled.

"My foster mom brought them."

"_Charlotte's Web_," Lexie said. "That was one of my favorites when I was little."

The distraction allowed Mark to get a grip and he cleared his throat to get attention. "We're gonna switch your, uh . . . " _protocol_ wouldn't do for a little kid, "medicine to something more effect – something that's gonna make you better quicker." He glanced at Lexie, unconsciously seeking approval and she nodded quickly. "The bad part is, it's gonna hurt like a –" _bitch_. _Christ, no!_ He stopped himself at the same time as Lexie widened her eyes about as big as they could go, her expression making him want to laugh and retrieving the last traces of his lost confidence. "It's gonna hurt a little bit." He pulled a stool over to the bed and sat down. "So maybe we can get Dr. Grey here to read to you from one of those books while I work. How's that?"

Unexpectedly, the little girl pulled a slightly insulted face. "I'm eleven," she said. "I can read myself."

Mark laughed, liking the fact that, in her situation, she could stand up for herself. "Well, how about Dr. Grey reads to _me_?" He winked at Lexie. "You can join us if you want to."

Lauren nodded and he got to work, listening with half an ear to Lexie's soft voice. Teachers had read to the class in kindergarten and elementary school, he guessed, and Mrs. Shepherd had a couple of times when she could get him and Derek to quieten down, but he'd never really had this, not how it was supposed to be. He hoped the kid would do better than him; have someone more permanent than a surgical intern to read to her.

He finished up and waited until Lexie reached the end of a paragraph. As they left the room, he asked, "You got any more illicit patients for me?"

Lexie shook her head, but then lingered, clearly uncomfortable.

"Yes, Grey?"

"It's just . . ." She glanced down at the ground, then stared at him. "Meredith said. She said she thought . . . Last night, at Joe's, when she . . . yelled at you, did she . . . did she tell you? . . . because when she came back to the table she said she didn't really believe it. That you and I . . . that we . . ." By this time her face was bright red and she was on the point of trembling.

Last night, Meredith's accusation had deeply hurt him. With everything that had happened, though, he'd pretty much forgotten about it and now, watching Lexie squirm, he had to stifle a laugh. "That we had sex?" he growled, consciously being _Mark Sloan_ and getting a mischievous sense of pleasure when she backed away slightly, gaping at him.

"Yes!" she squeaked.

Mark laughed. "Relax, Grey. You're safe." He grinned. "Consider yourself the one that got away." Then his grin turned into the smile that kept appearing on his face whenever he thought about Meredith. "Your sister and I are good. We're . . ." He ducked his head, awkward with his own happiness, his smile growing even broader. "We're working things out."

"You are?" she breathed. "That's . . . that's . . . so great! And it's so good that she doesn't think that we . . . that we . . ." She took a huge inhale to stop the next stream of babble, then said, "Is there anything I can do for you, Dr. Sloan?"

"No," Mark began, but then thought about it. "Actually, wait." He dug in his lab coat pocket for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. "Coffee, Grey. Bone dry cappuccino. Make it a double," he said. When she looked perplexed, he said, "The guy on the ground floor lobby coffee cart knows what it is. And," he had to pause for a moment to come to terms with the fact he was getting to say this in the present and not just in a torrent of guilty, agonizing memories, "get a double caramel latte and bring it to Meredith." _If you love me you'll buy me a caramel latte._ "Tell her Mark says 'hey,'" he said softly.

* * *

"So do you want the projectile vomit or the chronic rectal bleeding?" Meredith asked, waving charts in front of Cristina's face. "I really don't care. I'm –"

"Insane?" Cristina supplied. She leaned towards Meredith as though about to share something confidential. "Just so you know, that's regular person language for what you'd call _in love_."

Meredith rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to remind Cristina of her promise, but Cristina cut in before she could speak, putting on a whiny face.

"You're no fun. Judging's so much more entertaining than not judging." She sighed. "You're really in this, huh?"

Meredith nodded. "And may I remind you," she said gently, "that before . . . all of this, when I was freaking out, you were kind of on his side? And it was you who kept telling me I still cared about him, when I was insisting we were over."

"Well, even I can be an idiot," Cristina muttered, but then grudgingly added, "You and he were good together. Maybe you can be again. There, I said it. Happy now?" Her eyes met Meredith's for a moment of understanding, until she deliberately broke it, complaining, "And I don't want projectile vomit _or _rectal bleeding! I want a nice juicy trauma or a touch-and-go heart surgery. This crap," she flicked a dismissive finger at one of the charts, "is what we have interns for!"

"They're studying," Meredith said. "Bailey gave them time off. Well . . ." she narrowed her eyes as she watched Lexie hurrying towards them carrying two large cups. "Except Lexie apparently."

Cristina snorted, following Meredith's gaze. "I think this time you actually have to go through with having coffee with her," she teased. "And probably try not to accuse her of screwing anyone if you can manage it."

Meredith smiled drily, secretly delighted by Cristina's sarcasm which, more than any overt words, let her know that her friend had finally, truly decided to be okay about her and Mark, then changed the expression to welcoming as Lexie drew closer.

"Lexie!" she said, probably slightly too effusively, but she had a lot to make up for. "You brought me –"

"Dr. Sloan says to tell you _Mark says 'hey'_," Lexie blurted, blushing a furious shade of red and thrusting one of the cups into Meredith's hand.

"Really?" Meredith asked, blushing herself and unable to stop herself from smiling. "So this isn't _our_ –" She stopped short. "Wait . . . is this?" She took a sip of the coffee and had to blink back the tears that formed in her eyes. _He bought me a caramel latte_. She turned to Cristina. "He bought me a caramel latte."

Cristina rolled her eyes, but not before Meredith noticed the slight softening in them.

"He was very specific," Lexie said. "_Double_ caramel latte and a bone dry cappuccino for him." She glanced at the second cup suspiciously. "It looked kind of nasty when the guy was making it, actually." She swallowed. "I should probably get it to him before it gets cold."

She turned to go, but on impulse Meredith stopped her, holding out her coffee cup. "Here," she said. "Share my coffee. I mean . . . then we can say we had coffee together, right?" She grinned. "Popped our caffeine cherries or . . . you know, whatever." Lexie stood frozen, staring at her; Meredith waggled the cup. "'Cause this is just the first time, there'll be lots more times, but –"

"Oh for God's sake, Three!" Cristina snapped. "Drink the damn coffee and put us all out of our misery!"

Obediently, Lexie took the cup, smiling tentatively, and took a long swig. "It's good," she said, wiping her mouth and handing the cup back to Meredith. Her eyes widened. "We had coffee!"

"We did," Meredith said. "We had coffee." It felt surprisingly good.

* * *

Sipping at his coffee, Mark wandered through the surgical floor trying to get used to being here and feeling, if not exactly comfortable then not totally uncomfortable. He reached the OR board and glanced at the very full schedule of surgeries. The Chief was standing in his familiar position, staring disgustedly at the board in front of him.

"Dr. Webber," Mark said. He didn't really want to – even though he knew he was currently in the Chief's good books, he still felt insecure around him – but forced himself to come to a halt side by side with his boss.

"Dr. Sloan," Richard muttered, distracted.

"Busy board," Mark said. He wracked his brain for something intelligent to add. This was their first encounter that didn't involve signing probation forms, making humiliating apologies, or begging for surgeries, and he wanted to show that he had his shit together. Instead, he ended up redundantly mumbling, "There's a lot of surgeries going on," inwardly groaning at his awkwardness.

Fortunately, the Chief seemed oblivious. "A lot of surgeries _not _going on, you mean." He waved his hand at the board. "Shepherd's backed up. Multiple complications. He's been in OR2 since 6 a.m. and shows no sign of coming out any time that would be useful to anyone." He sighed.

"Neuro Gods!" Mark joked weakly, regretting it immediately. _Just shut the fuck up and nod politely if you can't be either smart or funny_, he told himself. But again, the Chief acted like he hadn't heard him, eyes still fixated on the board, until they shifted to Mark's face.

"Chief?" Mark asked, even more uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"There's a rhinoplasty at 1.30," Richard said, raising an eyebrow.

Mark eyed the board. "Yeah," he confirmed. Ms. Whitmuir – Maggie, if he remembered correctly: he'd assessed her a couple of weeks before he fell apart. "Fisher's," he added, more resentfully than he intended.

"Yes, but Dr. Fisher has a conflict. See?" Richard pointed at the details for a breast reconstruction in OR3, pushed to make way for a procedure that was supposed to happen in OR2. He narrowed his eyes. "Wasn't she your patient first?"

Mark nodded, only just stifling the sigh that wanted to escape.

Richard stared back at the board then glanced sideways at Mark. "Are you free?"

"I'm pretty much free all the time until -" Mark suddenly got what the Chief was asking. "You're offering me the rhinoplasty?"

"You're a plastic surgeon aren't you?" There was a slight twinkle in the Chief's eye. "Unless you're telling me you can't do a nose job by yourself. In which case it's a damn disgrace you're pulling in the salary I pay you." The twinkle turned into a full-blown grin.

"You're telling me I _can_?" Mark asked, his heart racing with excitement, although underneath it felt a little pathetic to be a forty-year-old attending, one of the best plastic surgeons in the country, practically salivating over a minor solo surgery like a junior resident.

Richard shrugged. "It was only a matter of time," he said. "You proved yourself to everyone yesterday. I think we can trust you with a closed rhinoplasty." He paused. "Welcome back, Dr. Sloan," he said warmly, then his brow wrinkled. "Wait. Hasn't your psychiatrist talked to you? The Board wants . . . _I_ want you back as Head of Plastics."

"She tried," Mark said, glancing down. "I wasn't –"

The Chief saved him from whatever lame explanation he was about to attempt by plowing on as though Mark hadn't even spoken. "You'll have an assistant for a while to help ease you back into the administrative side, take off the pressure a little and you and I will meet regularly to make sure everything's going well. But as far as surgeries go," he grimaced, "of course, there's yet more paperwork to be processed, but I don't see why we shouldn't jump the gun a little in the interest of . . . let's call it patient care, shall we?"

* * *

In the fourth floor men's restroom, Derek splashed cold water over his face. Raising his head, he stared into the mirror, noting the dark circles under his eyes, then ran his hands over his face and sighed.

He was exhausted. A ten-hour surgery had followed a night spent sleeping badly over the worry that he might have done something very wrong last night in telling Meredith about Mark's past, telling her a secret that Mark had been so clear he hadn't wanted to share. Stuck in the OR all day, he had no idea what effect his impulsive decision might have had: whether his good intentions had helped one or both of them, or just caused more damage. In either case, he was acutely aware – as he had been all night, and during the less critical moments of the surgery – that he had betrayed Mark's trust.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose hard, trying to clear his head and stood like that for a few long moments, raising his head again only when the sound of the outer door opening interrupted him.

It was Mark.

Derek froze, took a deep inhale, then offered a questioning, "Hi," trying and failing to sound more confident by the end of the one inadequate syllable.

Inwardly, Mark smirked; outwardly, he plastered on a morose expression; both were incredibly hard to maintain because he was so fucking happy with everything life had handed him the last twenty-four hours, but he was determined to milk a few seconds of pleasurable payback out of this situation, especially since Derek was obviously so uncomfortable.

Derek swallowed. "I've been in surgery all day," he said.

"Uh-huh." Mark unceremoniously turned towards the urinal, pulled down his scrub pants and boxers and took his time pissing, remaining silent the entire time, leaving Derek to sweat. When he was done, he finally turned to Derek. "I thought you were my friend," he said gruffly.

Derek's heart sank. "She told you." He sighed. "I just thought . . . " He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to muster some conviction; last night he'd been so sure it was the right thing to do. "I thought . . . God, right now I really have no idea what I thought." He raised his hands in defeat. "I'm sorry."

"You think sorry cuts it? You seriously think that begins to . . ." Mark couldn't go on. He was in too good a mood to make this work, plus Derek's blatant remorse was taking away from the fun. Still, he made one more valiant attempt to look wronged, but his facial muscles wouldn't allow it and his expression transformed into a broad grin.

Both of Derek's eyebrows rose and his eyes widened incredulously.

Mark shrugged one shoulder slightly, suddenly feeling kind of ashamed of himself. "She told me," he said softly. "She told me, and she got mad at me and then," he swallowed, reliving the emotions, trying not to let his eyes water, "she said she loved me and she stayed the night."

"She stayed the night?" Derek repeated with a confused smile. "At your house?"

Mark nodded. "We're working things out." He glanced down sheepishly. "I was just screwing with you . . . or trying to." He swallowed and looked directly at Derek. "Thank you, man."

Derek's face took on an expression that was equal parts relieved, hard done by and smug, and Mark couldn't help saying, mostly teasing but with a hint of gravity, "You get that it could have backfired really fucking badly, though, right?"

"Yes," Derek acknowledged quietly and seriously. "And for that, I really am sorry. I'm sorry I betrayed your trust. I thought it would make a difference, that's all. To Meredith. To you." He swallowed. "I'm glad it turned out to be the right thing."

A moment's quiet passed between them, until the smug expression re-emerged on Derek's face. "By the way," he said. "Your pout needs work."

"I wasn't _pouting,_" Mark objected. "That was a wounded scowl."

"Really?" Derek mused. "That's what you were going for?"

"Okay!" Mark protested, laughing. "You know what else happened today?"

Derek shook his head.

"Webber let me do a nose job." He grinned proudly. "Just me and an intern."

"Congratulations!"

"Yeah," Mark said with satisfaction, then added, "I guess I'm . . . I'm kinda . . . back."

"I guess you are," Derek said softly. "It's a good thing to see."

A warm feeling suffused Mark's chest and he felt moisture filling his eyes. He cleared his throat, before deflecting, "The intern was kinda weird, though. He told me his name was _Two_! What the hell's that about?"

"Yang," Derek said. "She assigned her interns numbers at the beginning of the year and one or two of them took it to heart."

"Nice." Mark grinned. "I kinda wish I'd thought of that."

Derek rolled his eyes. "His real name is Dr. Mostow. Steve Mostow."

"You know their full names?" Mark asked incredulously.

"You know Lexie Grey's name," Derek countered.

"Yeah, but she's Meredith's sister." He paused for a second to register the fact that he could now say this without pain about Meredith (without too much, anyway). Then he smirked and added, "And she fetches me coffee!"

"Ah." Derek shook his head. "I'm beginning to see what you meant when you said you were back."

Mark met his gaze, growing serious again. "I don't think I'll ever really be that guy again," he said. "But I'm feeling like, maybe . . ." He shook his head slightly, not taking his eyes off Derek's. "Maybe I'm starting to be _me_."

* * *

"Turns out you were right," Mark said as he settled himself on Dr. Wyatt's couch.

Her expression eloquently stated the _Of course_ that she managed to suppress saying out loud, replacing it with the more restrained, "About what?"

"Uh, talking to Meredith, not screwing up my entire life and going back to rot in New York," he smiled, "pretty much everything."

"You talked to Meredith?"

"Yeah," Mark said in a low voice, adding almost reverently, "She said she forgives me."

"And you can accept that?"

He swallowed. "I'm working on it. It's sinking in . . . slowly. She's . . ." He shook his head wonderingly. "She's forgiven me. She's amazing. She spent the night sleeping on my couch and she rode into work with me. I bought her coffee!" He grinned, then caught the shrink's kind but cautious gaze and lowered his eyes, slightly ashamed of getting carried away. "Sorry. I know it's . . . you probably think I'm moving too fast, and I guess . . . but . . . " He trailed off, filled with conflicting emotions.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Dr. Wyatt broke in gently. "I'm pleased for you. But," she hesitated, "do _you_ think you're moving too fast?"

"No," he said, knowing it was true. "I'm just not really caught up yet. Yesterday I had one kind of life – basically just surviving; today, everything's . . . bigger, better, full of incredible things I don't really think I deserve, except she keeps on telling me I do." He shrugged gently. "I just need to catch up."

Dr. Wyatt nodded thoughtfully, then crossed her legs and tapped her notebook several times. She raised her eyes to Mark's and held his gaze. "You understand that what comes next could be considered the hard part? Your life's about to return to some kind of normality; you're making a fresh start in a relationship that requires a massive commitment. Are you prepared for that?"

Mark swallowed. "You still gonna help me?" he asked softly.

Her mouth twitched. "When you're not arguing with me," she said drily, then leaned forward slightly in her chair.

"Then . . . yeah," Mark said as confidently as he could manage.

"This is much faster than we planned," she warned. "Dr. Webber and his Board buddies are all a little over-excited since your surgery with Dr. Shepherd."

"I did a solo rhinoplasty today. That was –"

"Not authorized by me," she broke in and Mark's heart sank a little.

"You don't think I can do this?" he asked.

She swallowed. "Actually, I _do_. Perhaps not another patient, but you . . ." She studied him. "You're resilient. Not just as a self-punishing defense mechanism, but deep down. It's not going to be easy, but," she smiled, "I have faith in you."

"You do?" he asked, deeply touched.

"Yes. But first." She picked up a thick blue file from the coffee table, leaned back in her chair and began leafing through paper. "Accelerated return to full duties means accelerated form-filling and accelerated psychiatric evaluations." She grimaced. "We'd better get started if we're going to finish on time."

* * *

Mark had gotten over his fear of stepping inside an elevator and had been using them all day. Now, on his way down to the lobby, the only occupant, he realized that while some of that had been a need to just not deal with people, most of it had been focused on Meredith.

Now that wasn't a problem. Everything today had been great. His life was coming together in ways he'd pretty much given up on. He was tired and still trying to catch up with all the changes, but he was feeling good, anticipating getting home and spending time with Meredith.

He pressed his eyes closed and leaned back against the elevator's metal wall, letting out a long sigh. Somehow that act, the letting go, opened his mind back up to a creeping sense of panic. All day he'd been walking on air because she'd forgiven him; because he'd felt her skin and touched her hair and bought her a caramel latte. But last night – Christ, only last night! – she'd hated him. What if she'd made a mistake and realized that during the day? What if she didn't forgive him? What if she didn't want him now; if it had all been just pity for a little kid she'd never met and now it was wearing off? And who the hell could blame her for any of that?

The elevator came to a halt and Mark opened his eyes; the doors pinged open and reluctantly he made his way out.

Meredith was standing there and, as soon as she caught sight of him, she smiled. "I thought I'd meet you here," she said. "I didn't know exactly what time you'd finish with your shrink, and I didn't want to miss you so . . ." She shrugged, a little awkward, "I've been standing here . . . freaking people out by smiling weirdly at them whenever the elevator doors open." She laughed slightly. "I'm really glad it was you this time."

"You waited for me?" Mark asked, the question filled with all the fears of the last few moments, and all the wonder of the rest of the day.

"You bought me a caramel latte," Meredith said, very soft, completely understanding.

Mark thought, the last few weeks, he'd gotten to know every scarred layer of his heart. But with her words, and her eyes and just being there, waiting for him, Meredith had uncovered a new, fresh, raw part, able to be taken totally by surprise. For a moment he couldn't move or breathe or speak, he could only stare at her not understanding how he got this lucky.

Meredith tilted her head on one side, watching him back, then she raised an eyebrow playfully. "Didn't you say something about Chinese food?"

"Yeah," Mark managed to force out gruffly through the emotions blocking his throat.

"Kung Pao Chicken?"

"Anything you want," he said. As they walked out together, he hoped she got how much deeper that went than a selection from a Chinese takeout menu.

* * *

_Title song: __**Chasing Cars**_, Snow Patrol

_I don't quite know  
__How to say  
__How I feel_

_Those three words  
__Are said too much  
__They're not enough_

_Show me a garden that's bursting into life_


	24. All That I Am, All That I Ever Was

Chapter 24 – All That I Am, All That I Ever Was

Mark narrowed his eyes at the half finished carton of beef and broccoli, sizing it up like a challenge, until Meredith, watching him, burst out laughing.

"You're . . . " she counted the empty and nearly empty boxes, "five for five, so far. Plus some of that noodle thing I didn't like. I know you like Chinese takeout, but -"

"You try subsisting on grilled cheese sandwiches for a month." He pulled a face: grilled cheese sandwiches had been all he could deal with, now he was pretty sure it would be a long time before he'd be able to even look at one. It was so good to taste real flavors again; even better that he could actually enjoy them. Reluctantly, he threw the chopsticks down on the kitchen counter, stretched and rubbed his stomach. "I can't," he said. "I would, but . . ." He smiled and let out a soft groan. Unused to all the food, his stomach was beginning to ache a little, but it was kind of a good pain, entirely different from the horrible feelings he was used to. He was really just full; full and very close to happy. In fact, no, he was actually happy, right here, right now.

"Is this okay?" he asked her tentatively.

"That you ate all the food except the Kung Pao Chicken I wrestled away from you?" She raised an eyebrow.

Mark shook his head. "Us being . . . okay . . . normal . . . kinda?" The nagging doubt that had crept inside his head turned into shame and he looked down, away from her eyes. The month he'd been _subsisting on grilled cheese sandwiches_ (he cringed a little at the casual reference to the past four fucked-up weeks), she'd been in hell; and, yeah, he had too, but she wasn't responsible for that. Maybe Dr. Wyatt was right to ask if he thought this was all too fast; but not for him, for Meredith. He raised his eyes slowly, about to make some kind of apology, until he found her looking at him, smiling gently.

"I _want _normal," she said. "As far as possible, I want normal." She gave a soft, slightly dry laugh. "I kept trying for normal, the whole time we were broken up but," she shrugged, "apparently there's no normal for me without _you_. And this . . . " She made a gesture that took in the kitchen, the takeout remains and Mark. "It's good. It's good being here with you. It's good being okay."

"You really mean that?" It was gradually sinking in, punctuated by moments of fear, that she really wanted to be with him. Each time that happened, his heart opened up just a little more.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "Seriously, I'm fine, Mark." She rolled her eyes again, this time at herself. "I don't mean _I'm fine_, I'm fine. I mean, I'm really, seriously _fine_. So, you know, keep eating all the food and talking to me like we're normal people. I like it."

"Okay," Mark said softly, reassured for now. "I'll try and talk as normally as I know how," he dipped his head and grinned at her, "which probably isn't saying much. The food, though?" He rubbed his stomach again and winced playfully. "I'm gonna have to take a pass on that."

Meredith reached her hand across the counter for the carton of beef and broccoli, then, ignoring chopsticks, picked out a piece of broccoli with her fingers. "'S healthy," she said indistinctly, as she munched on it, by way of an excuse.

"Yeah," Mark laughed. "I was thinking I could turn that into _I'm eating a lot of greens_ when I see Julia on Thursday." He'd found the card for his next oncology appointment in his wallet earlier that day. "Maybe it'll get me out of the disapproving head-shaking and the _you would seriously think a surgeon could take better care of himself _lecture."

She swallowed the remains of the broccoli quickly and scanned his face, her eyes crinkling with concern. "Are you worried?" she asked. "About the appointment. Do you think . . . after everything you've been through . . . do you think . . .?"

"I'm fine," Mark said, briefly smirking when she pulled a face at the well-worn words. "I mean it." His smirk grew. Maybe he was a little worried, but he hadn't really been thinking about it. He took his meds. He wasn't in pain. Physically, he'd been dealing pretty well with going back to work. And today, with Meredith here, he felt great. The reality? He'd had advanced duodenal cancer and, statistically, you didn't come back from that. But he _had_ and, only a month ago, he'd been all clear, and if he was making himself seem more convinced than he felt, it was only a little more. "Me inhaling a shitload of Chinese food didn't give that away?"

She shrugged, smiling slightly. "Well, you did eat a lot –"

"As you keep pointing out." He grinned. Being, briefly, the one doing the reassuring rather than the one on the receiving end was helping with his confidence. "Kind of tactlessly."

Meredith swallowed. "It's good you're eating," she said. "But," she hesitated, "you're really thin. You know that, right? And you kind of look like crap."

Playfully, Mark clutched his chest, pretending to be insulted. When that didn't get any reaction from her, except an extra wrinkle in her brow, he gently said, "I know," and grimaced slightly. "Unfortunately, I have to look in the mirror from time to time. Trust me, it was a whole lot worse before I reacquainted myself with the beard trimmer."

She laughed softly. She knew; she'd seen him in Psych; but she didn't want to bring that up now and, anyway, that wasn't what her mind was preoccupied with. She was thinking that the entire time they'd been apart, she hadn't really thought about his cancer; it wasn't as though she'd forgotten it, exactly, she just overlooked it in all the torment her mind had gotten lost in. Now, she found herself worried and slightly ashamed.

"How about we make some coffee and take it out on the deck?" Mark said.

Distant and engrossed in her own thoughts, Meredith only caught the last half of the sentence and had to work backwards to piece together what he'd said. "Yeah." She nodded. "That would be good."

* * *

It was a nice night: gentle breeze over the lake, stars out, clear sky, no trace of yesterday's rain.

For the first time in forever sitting out on the deck, Mark's mind wasn't remotely on cigarettes. (And even when it was, it was just the satisfaction of knowing he really didn't want one.) His mind _was_ on Meredith. She hadn't really said anything much since the subject turned to cancer. Now she was just sipping her coffee, staring out at the lake, smiling distractedly when her eye caught his.

"Mer . . . " He began, not really sure what he was going to continue with, but hoping her answer would give him an indication what was going on.

"I'm okay," she said softly, half-smiling at him. She wasn't entirely; she was trying to get something straight in her mind, something she hadn't thought about in weeks. He'd told her he was in remission and her response had been to get wasted and wind up in Joe's restroom with a nurse. Then, that morning . . . the morning he'd . . . never mind, _that_ morning he'd accused her of just being with him for sex; that he was (the words were burned into her brain) just someone to fuck until his time was up. She wasn't; and he wasn't; but the problem, what was haunting her now, was that, in a way, he'd kind of been right. Not in the way he thought, because it was never just about sex between him and her; but she'd never really considered that she'd get to have a life with him and, because of that, she'd kept her demons at bay.

The whole time they were together, he was on a precipice, resigned to not making it. And that was awful and her heart had broken for him, even before she knew she loved him. But he was on a precipice and _they_ were in this kind of . . . bubble. He chose her and he didn't know if he was going to live so (God, it barely made sense even to her!) it was like he couldn't _un_choose her. They were just _them, _in the present and if he ended up leaving her, it wasn't going to be because he wanted to. And then . . .

She sighed. "When you told me you were in remission I was so happy," she said, almost to herself. "Except then my stupid brain kicked in and I started thinking," she shrugged uncomfortably, "maybe you wouldn't want _us_ anymore; maybe, now you had a chance you'd choose something different." She glanced at him hesitantly and let out a weak laugh. "You know, go back to screwing women you only saw for one night and didn't ask you questions about your family or want to talk about theirs."

"That isn't gonna happen." None of this had been on his mind, but now he could remember back to the night she arrived back late and the morning after and, while he was incapable, _now_, of blaming her for anything, he remembered being drunk and hurt and the explanation helped him a little, even though at the same time his heart ached for her and her fears. "I would never -"

"I know," she said. "I guess. Anyway, I know it now. It's just . . . my dad, Derek," she looked at him directly, "people choose me, but they don't seem to choose me a second time." Her eyes watered and she swallowed. "I almost cheated. But it wasn't what you said –"

"What I said?" he asked cautiously. He'd said some fucked-up things to her, he knew that, but he couldn't exactly remember what. "Trust me," his voice grew rougher with anger at himself, "whatever I said was bullshit, Meredith."

She nodded, but went on. "It wasn't that I didn't want a life with you. That wasn't what scared me. It scared me that I wanted a life with you more than I knew how to deal with, and it scared me that you wouldn't want that too."

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Mark's instincts turned into words, from the part of his heart that she kept opening. "It's not an option for me. Choosing you a second time," he said. "When I chose you the first time, I was done. You're it for me." He swallowed. "You always were, even when I thought I'd never get to talk to you again."

Meredith exhaled. "You're not mad?" she asked quietly.

Mark shook his head. "You have a lot of credit in this relationship," he said. "And even if you didn't . . . no. Anyway," he half-grinned, half-sheepishly lowered his head, "I kind of took that out on the nurse," he swallowed, "when I broke his nose outside the hospital."

Her eyes widened and she took in a sharp breath. "That was the nurse you punched out?"

He nodded, then shrugged. "It seemed like the right thing to do," he said, happy when Meredith's face cleared of worry and she started laughing.

* * *

"So your shrink's good?" Meredith asked.

They had come in from the deck when the temperature dropped and were sitting on the couch, Meredith curled up in the corner, Mark leaning against the arm rest on the other end.

"I don't think I'd've gotten through this without her," Mark confessed, then swallowed. "Or Derek either. He's been - "

Meredith didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than make a soft noise of support, but Mark sensed her stiffen a little and immediately added quietly, "He had a really hard time being there for me. Because of you. He almost walked out on me."

She breathed out carefully. Their friendship had hurt and infuriated her and there was still a little residual pain. But deep down, beneath her desperation, she guessed she'd always kind of understood that Derek was struggling and that nothing he did was really against her, only _for_ Mark. But somehow, the facts, stated out loud in words, mattered.

"He said . . ." She wanted to offer something back. "He said, when you guys were in high school, you were the coolest guy he knew."

Mark looked up at her, not quite comprehending at first. "He said . . . ?" For a long moment, Mark felt like he couldn't breathe. The woman he loved telling him his best friend admired him was . . . fuck, just . . . he took a deep breath and blinked back the tears forming in his eyes, then an impulse began to build in his brain. "You always wanted me to talk about my past," he said. "Well, now you know some of the sordid details," he half-grimaced, half-smiled, "you still up for that?"

Meredith nodded.

"You wanna see a picture of me when I was the," he paused and laughed slightly, wry but proud, "coolest guy Derek Shepherd knew?"

"I would love to see it," she encouraged him.

He stood up, saying "Wait there, okay?" and made his way to the staircase. But as his foot hit the first step, his confidence level fell for a moment as he realized the picture was upstairs in his bedroom. He wasn't sure he wanted to go up there; he certainly didn't want to subject Meredith to it. But he reminded himself that she wanted normal, bit back his doubts and, even though his heart was suddenly heavier than when he'd made the suggestion, continued on up the stairs

* * *

Avoiding looking at the bed, Mark went into the walk-in closet and knelt down by the box he had just kicked to one side the last time he looked at it. He swallowed hard. Why the hell had he even made the suggestion of showing her the picture? Okay, he was carried away by Derek's comment; and, not just that, he wanted to do something for her, the one thing he'd refused to do before. But he didn't want to be up here; he didn't know if he could go downstairs again and be _normal_, even if it made both of them happy. Because this wasn't normal; it just wasn't fucking normal, because of what he'd –

A soft sound behind him broke into his thoughts, and he turned sharply to see Meredith leaning against the doorframe.

"You were taking kind of a long time," she shrugged.

Mark sighed, grabbed the picture and stood up. "You don't . . ." He began. " We should go back downstairs." He moved towards her, but then didn't know what to do. His urge was to usher her out, but given their history here, that seemed impossibly wrong.

"Or," her eyes met his. "We could stay here." Her eyes traveled to the picture in his hand. "You were cute," she said, smiling even though her voice was shaking, almost indiscernibly as she tried to fight it back, but clear enough for Mark to notice.

"Mer –"

She ignored him and broke in, "Who's the girl?"

Wrong-footed, ashamed and unable to decide how to deal with this when Meredith obviously had her own plans, Mark looked down at the floor and mumbled, "She was just some cheerleader. We, uh . . . we . . . " He raised his eyes to hers and gave a quiet snort through his nose. "Nothing much changed in twenty-three years. I was a -"

"Maybe you were," Meredith said softly. "But a lot has changed, except that right now you're coming pretty close to pushing me away again."

Mark pressed his eyes closed. "I'm trying not to," he said almost desperately. "It's just . . . this room . . . you shouldn't be here."

Meredith swallowed. This was far from easy for her. She didn't like being here any more than he did, but they had to get past this.

"So we're just gonna seal the room off and never talk about it again?" She smiled as playfully as she could; Mark lowered his eyes to the ground again and shook his head miserably. "Because there's an alternative. I mean, we could just . . . deal with reality or whatever. We could look at it like . . . at least this is _our_ mess. We've spent our whole lives living in other people's messes, but this one is ours and we can get through it."

"Or sell the house," Mark mumbled, without raising his eyes.

"Well, that's not really practical between now and tomorrow morning when we have to get up for work," Meredith deadpanned. "And I'm not even sure I want that. I like this house. I always liked this house. And I know you said you doubted your reasons for buying it, but you like it too, right?"

Mark swallowed and glanced at her. "I did," he admitted and Meredith nodded.

She reached forward to take the picture from his hand and smiled as she looked at it a second time. "I didn't tell you all of what Derek said." She took a breath. "He said you were the coolest guy he knew, but he didn't realize you were one of the bravest."

His eyes watered at Derek's words, but he shook his head, denying the thought, until she said, "You think you can be brave for me, about this?" She paused, waiting, and Mark finally met her eyes. "Because," she raised an eyebrow slightly, "I didn't shower when I left work because I wanted to make sure I met you and I'm dirty from the hospital. Plus, one night on the couch is enough for a hard-working resident."

"You want to sleep in this room?" Mark asked, not quite believing what she was saying. "With me?"

Meredith nodded.

Seconds ticked by while Mark tried to reply, his voice and words stopped by protests that vied with gratitude and love. Then he nodded a reluctant agreement and said, very softly, "The bravest person I know is you."

* * *

Exhaustion helped Meredith fall asleep for, maybe, forty-five minutes, before she woke again, acutely conscious of Mark next to her, clearly wide awake based on the stifled rhythm of his breath and trying not to do anything to disturb her.

They had curled up on top of the bed, covered lightly by the throw from the living room, him making sure that she had the larger share, protectively clothed in t-shirts and sweat pants, hers too large and borrowed from Mark. It was easier and less complicated than being in bed their first time here, yet somehow more guardedly intimate than anything else could have been.

She reached behind herself, finding and taking his hand and pulled it towards her, gradually breaking through his shamed reluctance until he gave in and held her, and she pressed back slightly against his chest.

For a moment, she held her breath, matching his, until relief washed through her that he still felt like him and that she really did feel okay here.

"Try and sleep well," she murmured, wriggling back a little further.

She felt him swallow, but then his voice vibrated close to her neck, "You too, Mer," and she gave a long, soft sigh, closed her eyes and let herself fall asleep again.

Mark didn't really want to sleep. He wanted to keep his guard up against himself, against the memories, against whatever fucked-up thing he might unintentionally do to bring the past crashing down in the present. But her hair was tickling his face and her back was pressed into his chest and stomach, and past the guilt, past the fear, she made him feel warm, made him feel alive. Her breathing slowed and evened out and the hand that had been holding tight onto his loosened its grip and steadily, like some autonomic process, his breath matched hers and, though he fought it a couple of times, his eyes closed and he let himself give way to sleep too.

* * *

Meredith woke up so abruptly she pushed herself into a sitting position before she knew what was happening. She'd been dreaming. Something barely remembered and entirely mundane about cleaning up a patient's vomit . . . and people kept bringing her coffee, cups and freaking cups of it. Whatever, she had no idea – just a bunch of cognitive waste – Oh, God!

Her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized what had woken her, her whole body going rigid, beginning to shake as she retreated into herself, her mind whirling with incoherent thoughts about what was happening and what she ought to do.

Mark was on the far side of the bed, face pressed into the pillow, making loud, terrified whimpering sounds and apparently trying to twist his body away from some unseen enemy.

For a few seconds, she just sat there transfixed, playing half-thought-out scenarios through her mind about what might happen next and what she would do if it did, until she took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

He wouldn't do that again. He wouldn't, couldn't do that again, or anything like it, right? He'd know she was _her_, and he'd made it clear over and over again that he never meant her any harm, how much it hurt him to hurt her. She couldn't leave him like this: he was so distraught, she couldn't bear to just sit there and watch him and do nothing.

"Mark," she whispered, rolling her eyes a little at the timid uselessness of her voice as it barely emerged from her throat. She cleared her throat, took another deep breath and tried to ignore the tension in her body. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand towards his shoulder, the first touch the tactile equivalent of the way she'd said his name. He didn't wake up, didn't turn on her, remained lost in private anguish, and so she tried again. "It's okay . . ." She tried stroking him, pulling back in alarm when he flinched, his muscle contracting to twitch her hand away, and let out the most heart-breaking sound she'd heard yet.

She let three deliberately counted-out seconds go by before she forced herself to try harder. "It's just a dream," she said in a firm voice. "You need to wake up, okay?" She grasped his shoulder and shook him, not too vigorously, but enough that he had to be able to feel her. He rolled over on his side, eyelids flickering briefly, then his eyes opened wide, staring at her without really seeing her and filled with fear and hatred.

Her hand fell away from him and she shrank back into the pillows, her heart sinking as she fought back the awful expectation that her trust and love were going to be betrayed again and that this, this time would truly be the end.

But as his eyes stayed fixed on hers, they gradually began to change, first to confusion, then cleared to complete vulnerable openness that was somehow a smile and very close to crying at the same time.

"Meredith?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded, relaxing just a little at the soft, gruff relief in his voice.

"Shit . . . I was . . . she was . . ." He swallowed. "I was dreaming." His eyes were so scared. "I didn't . . . do anything to you did I?"

She shook her head and mouthed, "No," sliding closer to him as she let out the accumulated breath in her lungs. He wasn't really quite awake, halfway between the dream and the present and yet he knew her and so very clearly loved her, cared about her, felt safe with her, that she felt safe again with him, perhaps the safest she'd _ever_ felt.

His smile infused his eyes as he said her name again, "Meredith," like it comforted him, then he moved towards her, took her hand and pulled her gently down next to him, burying his face in her neck.

As they drifted off to sleep again, together, she thought she heard him say, "You're my lifeline."

* * *

_Title song: __**Chasing Cars**_, Snow Patrol

_All that I am  
__All that I ever was  
__Is here in your perfect eyes  
__They're all I can see_


	25. I'll Stay With You

Chapter 25 – I'll Stay With You

"Mr. Carr." Derek smiled reassuringly. "I know you're feeling tired, but Dr. Sloan and I need to follow up on your procedure."

The patient, Daniel Carr, propped up in bed, shrugged his agreement.

"Fortunately," Derek said, moving over the bed and shining a light pen in each of the man's eyes in turn, "I get to be the good guy today and ask you five minutes' worth of easy questions. Dr. Sloan and Dr. Karev's work," he aimed a smirk towards Mark, "is going to take much longer."

Dryly, Mark returned the smirk, half an ear remaining with Derek as he showed simple pictures in primary colors to the patient and asked him to identify their names; half an eye on Alex pretty much twitching in the corner of the room, somewhere between excitement and terror that Mark was letting him set up and monitor the tissue expander reinflation more or less by himself; the rest of his mind lost in going over the news from this morning's appointment in oncology.

According to the MRI and labs he was still in remission. Everything was great apart from his low weight, which he was working on gaining back, trying to eat healthily, ever since Meredith returned to his life.

"Truck," Daniel Carr's weary voice broke through Mark's thoughts. "Don't you have anything more interesting to look at? I mean," he smirked generally at all three men, "there's some hot nurses out there. I could name body parts or –"

"All right. You passed your neuro exam," Derek broke in, laughing slightly, moving to stand at the back of the room. "Dr. Sloan?"

"You good, Karev?" Mark asked quietly, as Alex concentrated on positioning the tissue expander injection port as precisely as he could.

Alex nodded cautiously and Mark smiled at Daniel. "You and Dr. Karev are gonna be going through this every two weeks for the next three months, so this is a chance for both of you to learn how simple it is." He paused. "It'll just take us a few minutes to set up, but the procedure takes an hour or two to complete and, the first time, it's gonna feel a little scary. But for the most part it's just you sitting around and –"

"Dude, a tumor I didn't know I had was about to kill me, I crashed my car and got all burned up, he," Daniel raised an eyebrow towards Derek, "cut into my brain, and you blew up a freaking water balloon under my scalp." He laughed grimly. "Trust me, I'm so beyond scaring, scary shit is scared of _me_!" He beckoned to Alex in a playful challenge. "Bring it!"

Mark laughed. "Bad ass, huh?" He turned towards Alex. "Karev?"

Alex nervously cleared his throat. "You may feel some minor discomfort as the saline refills the expander. But we try to minimize that by using this injection port –"

Mark's pager went off loudly: an emergency in the Pit. He sighed and showed the pager to Alex. "See what they want, would you? It's probably nothing. I'll carry on with this," he shrugged apologetically, "and if its something real, I'll join you when Mr. Carr's all set. You can come back later and check on him and dress his burns, okay?"

Alex nodded and left the room, and Mark carried on where Alex had left off, setting up the injection port for a steady supply of saline. When Alex didn't return, he finished up, called in an experienced nurse to monitor the process, then left the room with Derek. He felt really good: in control, happy, pleased with his work and full of hope.

"You know," he said to Derek. "Honestly, that's only a tissue expansion, and they're not that complex for a good plastic surgeon. But," he licked his lips then grinned, leaning slightly towards Derek's ear, "it's a really fucking good tissue expansion!"

Derek rolled his eyes. "I take it you're having a good day?" Mark shrugged contentedly, and Derek laughed, his eyes mischievous. "Clearly I should have prepared myself. I'm not certain I'm ready for the Sloan self-promotion machine!"

"Yeah?" If Mark had thought about it, he probably wouldn't have said it, but it just slipped out. "'Cause I heard I was the coolest guy you knew."

Derek's eyes locked with his, the briefest flash of pain giving way to questioning, then softening, then a smirk. "Moment of weakness," he muttered, the smirk just turning into a real smile before he turned on his heel and walked away.

Mark felt horribly uncomfortable, but he also felt something else, something incredible. Despite everything, everything he'd done, everything they'd been through, he was back to normal with Derek Shepherd. He hadn't thought it was possible for the day to get any better, but it just had, and he basked in that before the shrill blaring of his pager broke into his thoughts: the Pit again, the same code as before. Briefly wondering where Alex had gotten to, this time he took it seriously.

* * *

"So . . . " Meredith listed the gifts as they changed hands from her to Lexie. "A box of new, very sharp pencils, a cup of coffee and a tuna fish sandwich which, I know," she wrinkled her nose, "sounds gross this early in the morning but Mark insisted it's brain food, although you and I and _he_ all know it's mostly mayonnaise and not very good mayo –" She broke off when she realized she was rambling and Lexie looked overwhelmed. "Are you worried about the test?" she asked.

Lexie shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. "Yes, because I worry about stuff," she clarified, laughing slightly at her own expense. "But also kind of no, because I'm totally prepared. I mean I could answer every question Dr. Yang asked me even when I was drinking tequila," she grinned shyly, "and then I have the whole photographic memory thing on my side."

"You have a photographic memory?" Meredith asked, thoroughly surprised. "How come no one knew?"

Lexie looked down awkwardly. "I guess I didn't think anyone would be interested," she said in a small voice.

Silence fell between them as Meredith experienced pangs of guilt. Lexie's entire life had been uprooted when she came here, to a teaching hospital she never planned on attending, with a suddenly dead mother, a grief-deranged father and – the poisoned icing on an already crappy cake! - a hostile half-sister. Her mind wandered back to this time last year, when she was busy screwing up her own intern test before George rescued her; to Thatcher slapping her, drunkenly banning her from his wife's funeral, and her guilt grew worse as she realized for the first time that Lexie was taking her test close to the anniversary of her mother's death.

"Oh, Lexie," she said. "Are you . . . is it . . . this time of year . . . ?"

Lexie looked up. "My mom?" she asked.

Meredith nodded. "I'm so sorry. I should've . . . _something_." She shrugged, feeling useless. "I have no idea what, because I basically suck at this. But I should've remembered or . . . _something_."

"It's okay." Lexie said. "I mean, it's not. Last year it was horrible and," she glanced warily at Meredith, who nodded encouragement, "I honestly went a little crazy. But I'm past that." She smiled. "My mom was so proud of me becoming a surgeon it was almost ridiculous. So I figure the best way to remember her is to ace this test." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "I should get going," she said. "Thank you for the pencils and the coffee and the sandwich," she grinned, "even though I don't like tuna fish and I can't eat mayonnaise because I'm allergic to eggs, but that's Dr. Sloan's fault not yours!"

A sense of unease was stealing over Meredith, partly about her treatment of Lexie, but partly because her mind was beginning to discern a contrast between her and her sister. Maybe Lexie had moved on from last year but, now that she'd recalled it all - the pleasure of having Susan as a fake-mommy for a while, the pain at her death, Thatcher's violent hatred and blame – she couldn't put it back in its box. She plastered a smile on her face and wished Lexie good luck, but the whole time she was reliving the events of a year ago and a little part of her felt as empty and lonely, as lost and damaged as she had then.

* * *

The Pit was insanely busy when Mark arrived and, at first, he couldn't see Alex or any sign of anyone wanting him for anything. Then, through the knots of patients, nurses and doctors, he glimpsed activity behind the glass walls of a trauma room. He was on the other side of the floor and, even if he hadn't been, any sound would have been muted, but he didn't need to hear, he could see perfectly well that something was very wrong.

There was a patient on a gurney, but the actions of the two closest nurses suggested he or she hadn't made it. In one corner of the room, Alex was red faced, shouting and waving his arms aggressively, while Nurse Tyler stood between him, the patient and a wild-looking Callie who seemed to be trying to talk Alex down, without much success.

"What the fuck?" Mark muttered to himself as he walked towards the chaos and quietly entered the trauma room.

Callie turned briefly and he raised an eyebrow questioningly at her, choosing not to react to Alex's outburst of, "Well, that's just fucking great," clearly aimed in Mark's direction.

"Torres?" Mark asked in an undertone as she moved closer to him.

She swallowed. "That's . . . she _was_," she sighed heavily, "Anna David. The domestic violence patient you –"

"Christ." Mark ran a hand over his face. "What did you need me for?"

"We didn't page you as a surgeon. She kept asking for you, that's all."

Mark felt his heart sink a little. He had gained Anna's trust on one of the hardest days of his life, and that had been a step in his recovery. The least he could have done was be there for her when she asked for him.

"I trached her!" Alex's loud voice broke into Mark's thoughts. "I fucking trached her!" He looked accusingly at Callie. "You saw me. You saw what I did. I've done them before, and this one was by the fucking book!"

"You did everything right, Karev," Callie said steadily. "You thought and acted quickly and you did everything exactly right. She was just . . ." She sighed again, then turned back to Mark. "She had massive cervical contusions this time. But she was hanging in there. We paged you, Karev arrived and, like, as soon as he set foot in the trauma room, she started fighting for breath."

Mark closed his eyes and nodded, taking in the reality of the situation. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that, while he deeply regretted sending Alex as a proxy, he was just doing his job, taking care of another patient who needed him; this was tragic, but it wasn't his fault; Anna's death didn't say anything about him or Meredith or any other part of his life; like Dr. Wyatt said, he wasn't a label, not even the ones he might want to give himself. Most of him, though, was focused on Alex, who was struggling between crying and punching someone.

"Fuck!" Alex shoved his fingers into his short hair, his body twisting with fury.

"Dr. Karev," Tyler warned in a low voice, and Mark made a decision.

"I got this," he said, quietly dismissing Tyler and taking his place in front of Alex. He put a hand on Alex's arm. "Let's get out of here," he said. "You need to -"

"Get the fuck away from me!" Alex erupted, pushing Mark's hand away, then rounding on Callie. "Is he here?" he demanded. "Is that sick fuck here, because –?"

"The EMTs thought he might have called for an ambulance," Callie said softly. "She was alone when they got to the apartment, but the front door had been left open. They called the cops. He's not –"

"Because," Alex barked out a menacing laugh, "someone should do to him what he did to her. See how he likes it." He turned back to Mark. "You know, if you'd've answered your own page –"

"Everything would be exactly the same," Mark said, deliberately calm. "Except Mr. Carr's first saline injection would have been set up by an unsupervised, nervous rookie and he'd be scared shitless of his next reinflation."

"Yeah, right," Alex scoffed nastily, randomly and illogically blaming Mark for everything. "Because you're so fucking great." He snorted, narrowing his eyes. "Remind me. How long is it since you got out of the psych ward?"

"Karev!" Callie admonished, but Mark shook his head at her and mouthed "It's okay."

"Let's get out of here," Mark repeated, preparing himself for the next onslaught. But Alex suddenly seemed to deflate, looking down at the floor and shaking his head, and when Mark touched his arm again, he didn't protest, just compliantly left the trauma room and followed until they reached Mark's office.

Ignoring his own sense of discomfort – every time he came in here, he remembered crouching on the floor, chain smoking; plus, Fisher had kind of made the place his own and there were still signs of that, although the one advantage to that was that the place was tidier than he had ever seen it – Mark directed Alex to sit down, then moved around behind the desk and sat down himself.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, until Alex, still not looking at Mark, mumbled, "Sorry about the psych ward thing. I was out of line."

"It's okay," Mark said. Alex's words had stung a little, but he knew – God, if anyone should get this, it was him – it was just lashing out, finding a convenient target for feelings too strong to contain. He considered how to steer a course between empathy and the reprimand he would have to give as Head of Plastics, briefly wondering at the fact that he couldn't remember ever having put this much thought into how to handle staff, or – because Alex was kind of both – friends. "But you should –"

Alex raised his head and his glittering eyes effectively cut off Mark's words. "My dad's a junkie," he said hoarsely. "I mean," he pressed his eyes closed briefly, "he was. I haven't seen in him forever. Who the fuck knows?" He paused and swallowed. "He used to beat up my mom. Until I bulked up and put a stop to it." He shrugged. "Gave him a taste of what it felt like. But she . . ." He shook his head. "My mom's a schizophrenic. She goes on and off her meds and she barely takes care of my brother and sister and it's all so . . . fucking fucked up."

Mark held his breath, trying not to intrude. If he was honest, he was slightly uncomfortable; but there was also a sense of privilege and pride that Alex would trust him with stuff like this.

Alex picked up a rubber band from the desk and started to play with it. "She couldn't breathe. She was fine when I got there, and two seconds later she was fighting to breathe. So I asked Torres, should I trach her, 'cause I've done them before and it always works. They start breathing again. But she . . . it didn't work. Nothing we tried worked. And it was like . . ." He shook his head, then laughed grimly. "Whatever. She was just a patient. I'd never even met her before today." He stood up, dropping the rubber band on the desk. "I'm sorry I lost it. It was unprofessional and it won't happen again." He forced a grin. "You're gonna have me debriding bedsores for a month, right?"

"Probably," Mark said, trying to invest the word with the rebuke he didn't have the heart to actually give now. "For now, just go check on Mr. Carr." As Alex walked slowly towards the door, he added, "Karev." Alex stopped and turned around, and Mark smiled wryly. He wanted to give Alex something more, show some empathy, but without embarrassing him. "At least you didn't punch anyone out. That puts you one step ahead of your boss."

Alex swallowed, nodded several times, then raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean no bedsores?"

Mark snorted out a laugh. "Nice try," he said, "but not a chance in hell!"

* * *

"Did Lexie tell you she has a photographic memory?" Meredith asked. She was playing with a salad she didn't really feel like eating, preferring the large cup of coffee she had bought to go with it.

"Yeah?" Mark said. "That could be kinda useful. Or," he pulled a face, "kinda scary, at least for those of us she's seen melting down in the stairwell."

"Oh, you're fine," Meredith said, laughing. "In this place, that's probably a statistically significant sample of the surgical staff!" She watched as Mark hungrily finished the last of his sandwich, then offered him her salad, which he accepted. "You get that you're turning eating into an Olympic sport, right?"

"Shit, I forgot to tell you," he said, grinning. The morning's events with Alex had eclipsed everything else in his mind, even the news from oncology. "I'm still in remission."

Guilt briefly flashed through Meredith's mind that her preoccupations had made her forget all about his appointment. But she pushed it aside and broke into a broad smile, feeling moisture fill her eyes. She was so happy for him. "That's . . . " She shook her head; she didn't have adequate words. "That's so great," she whispered.

They were getting used to each other again. Meredith had spent every night at Mark's house, following a visit to her own to get clothes. They were now sleeping _in_, rather than just on top of, his bed together, eating dinner every night, talking, becoming comfortable and increasingly normal. Lunch in the cafeteria was another aspect of this and one they both really enjoyed. Today, Meredith was still disconcerted by the thoughts that her brain had churned up after the conversation with Lexie, but being with Mark, having lunch even if it didn't involve actually eating on her part, was making her feel better.

Occasionally, someone at another table would stare at them and whisper something to a neighbor. But Seattle Grace was Seattle Grace, and that was only to be expected. They'd find something else to gossip about in a few days time.

"Other than that, how was your morning?" Meredith asked.

"Lost a patient, sort of. Karev took it kinda hard." Mark said cryptically. Meredith was Alex's friend, and he wanted to let her know without giving away details he shouldn't; and he wasn't ready to think about Anna David with Meredith right next to him. "We reinflated Daniel Carr's expander, and, uh," he shrugged happily, "Derek and I are getting back to our regularly scheduled programming." He dug into the salad. "I still seem to be in the Chief's good books. I have a meeting with him after lunch about tissue allotransplanation – something to do with Hahn and a lung surgery that got put on hold when I went into Psych." He laughed awkwardly. "Although his attitude's probably gonna change when he finds out I'm back with you."

All the comfort of having lunch with Mark evaporated as Meredith felt like she'd been punched. "Excuse me?" she demanded coldly. She had all too good an idea what Mark meant, but she needed to hear it stated out loud.

Picking up on her mood change, Mark swallowed. "It was a dumb joke," he said. "Just . . . Webber seems very protective of you. When we were . . ." he scratched his ear awkwardly, "when I was first getting back to work, he was very clear he didn't want us working together. He said you were special." He paused, hoping to take the sting out by turning the subject to his own feelings for her. "He's right," he said in a low voice.

It didn't work.

"I'm _special_?" So freaking _special_ that he had to ruin every part of her life since she was a little kid! And, okay, she couldn't deny that there was a bond between her and the Chief, and that she felt something too, but . . . "I'm freaking special?" She felt so angry and disrespected. "What the hell business of Richard Webber's is it who I see or don't see? Where does he get off –?" She broke off, swallowing deliberately, as she stared into Mark's eyes. He was attempting to look reassuring, but she could see that he was freaked out; for his sake, she calmed herself.

"Whatever," she stated. "_We're_ good. That's all that matters. I'm thirty-two years old and the Chief is just my . . . Chief." She smiled as brightly as she could manage, then took a deep gulp of her coffee. "Where were we?" she asked, hoping Mark could remember, because her mind was now angrily, sadly, resentfully swimming in a toxic soup made up of her childhood and its repercussions.

* * *

All Mark's official paperwork was now complete and HR and the Board had approved his full reinstatement. This afternoon he hadn't scheduled any surgeries for himself, wanting to catch up with the state of his department. He told himself that this was the reason he stopped by the OR board although, in reality, it was a place to zone out and find a little breathing space, without the isolation of going back to his office.

So far, the day had been an emotional rollercoaster but, surprisingly, that wasn't what he needed to get a grip on; what he needed to get his head around was his astonishment that, over and over, he was coping, and not just struggling to cope, but really handling everything.

He guessed therapy must work. Therapy and Meredith.

The sound of throat-clearing behind his right shoulder brought him back to the present and the not especially welcome sight of Dr. Fisher.

"Fisher," Mark acknowledged. According to the Chief, Fisher had taken his demotion back down to regular attending well on the surface, but couldn't quite disguise the disgruntlement underneath. Honestly, Mark could have done without him and was half-hoping Fisher's ego would cause him to resign, since he'd clearly had hopes of staying on as Head of Plastics, although that was never going to happen, even if Mark wasn't in the picture. For an attending, his skills were mediocre, he missed things a better plastic surgeon would see instantly, he never took risks that were actually worth taking and he was a total ass. But he'd been here a long time, his record wasn't so bad as long as you didn't expect anything spectacular and, really, a lot of plastics work was just routine. Mark figured dealing with Fisher would have to be one more thing he could congratulate himself on coping with! So, when the man replied with a slightly skeptical,

"Dr. Sloan."

Mark faked a broad smile. "You got a breast reconstruction this afternoon," he stated, reading from the board.

Dr. Fisher nodded.

"You all good for that?" Mark felt kind of ridiculous. Holding out olive branches had never really been his thing. But then, honestly, his thing had been kind of fucked up, and so far this way was working out better.

"Naturally," Fisher almost spat back, making Mark sigh inwardly. But then the guy swallowed. "Except . . ." He eyed Mark cautiously. "In my last reconstruction, there was a dangerous level of venous blood accumulation in the abdomen, and this patient has similar borderline contraindications. Do you," the words seemed to be squeezed out, Fisher unwilling to fully reveal that he was asking for help, "have many problems with that?"

_No, because I'm a competent goddamn surgeon who prepares for known complications_, was what Mark wanted to say. Instead, he took a breath, then muttered, "Leeches."

"Leeches?"

_Oh, for the love of God!_ The look on Fisher's face was priceless. Mark had learned about leeches when he was a resident, but in Fisher's worldview they probably fell into the same off the wall territory as biosynthetic dressings. He guessed he had to take some of this on himself for never teaching the man to update his ideas, instead just issuing sardonic orders.

"Leeches," Mark confirmed, allowing himself the trace of a smug grin. "You want me to scrub in and show you?"

There was a moment's enjoyable pause where Fisher seemed like he was straining to hold in a string of curses, which finally came to end with a very quiet, very tight, "Yes. Thank you, Dr. Sloan."

* * *

Thanks to the intern test, Meredith was seated at the nurses' station working on a pile of charts, trying to decide whether she minded because the easy task afforded the rest of her stupid mind too much room to roam around in the past, or didn't mind because she was too distracted to do anything with more substance.

In the end, the decision was made for her, when Derek leaned across the counter, smiling.

"I believe I owe you a surgery," he said.

She smiled back nervously. She had seen Derek from a distance during the few days she'd been back with Mark, on one occasion prepping a patient for his surgery, but they hadn't really spoken properly. Now, with a little distance between today and that night at Joe's, and all the good things that had happened in between, she felt she should say something before they could move on. "I believe I owe you a thank you," she said softly.

He gave an awkward nod and his smile turned a little sheepish. "It's been pointed out to me that my actions could have backfired," he said. "But, on balance, I think I did the right thing."

"You did the right thing," Meredith confirmed, then added very quietly, "You've kind of done the right thing through all of this, I mean, right back to when Mark and I . . . " She didn't know how to go on, except to add, "Thank you."

"You're giving me way too much credit," Derek said, but his eyes softened, her words clearly pleasing him. Then he inhaled briskly. "Now." He held out a fresh chart. "I'm consulting on a Peds case. An eighteen month-old boy with an AT/RT."

Meredith's eyes widened. "Atypical teratoid/rhabdoid tumor," she stated, and Derek nodded. She sighed. "The survival rate at that age is, like –"

"Ten per cent," Derek supplied grimly. "But," he smiled, "the tumor is still relatively small, and I think there may be something we can do. There's no surgery today, but we'll need to get labs and an MRI right away. Unless," he glanced at the pile of charts overflowing in front of her, raising an eyebrow playfully, "you'd rather stick with that."

"I think I can tear myself away," Meredith laughed, and got up from her swivel chair. She was excited about the case, she was happy she and Derek could be friends again and co-workers without complications, and suffused through everything was the love she felt for Mark. She just wished she could get rid of the feeling of misgiving, the thoughts about Lexie and Thatcher and herself, the creeping sense that, in all of this, if there was going to be a problem, she and her issues would be the cause.

* * *

Later that afternoon, drinking coffee after a successful breast reconstruction performed in close to record time, Mark caught sight of Callie grinning at him across the hallway. He raised his cup to her and she walked towards him.

"You're really something, you know that?" she said, nodding slowly to back to up her words.

Mark - pleased with the excellent procedure and the way he'd handled Fisher, and still slightly pumped - smirked. "I like to think so."

She rolled her eyes, but then smiled again. "I'm serious. I mean, I was worried you'd freak out because we lost Anna David –"

"It's sad we couldn't help her," Mark broke in, his mood softening as he allowed a little regret to penetrate, then let it go. He took a sip of coffee. "She was my first patient after I started back at work."

"I know." Callie brushed his arm with her hand. "Which is kind of why I thought you might lose it. But there you were dealing with Karev like nothing I've ever seen before, and just now with the leeches . . ." she shrugged, "I was watching from the gallery for a while. I didn't even know you could use leeches like that!"

"Then you need skills training along with Fisher," Mark said, drily playful. "Come on, Torres. We've used them in reattachment surgeries!"

"Well, yeah . . . but you had them in her abdominal cavity and . . . whatever!" She made a small disapproving sound through her lips. "Would you stop interrupting and let me pay you a compliment?" She took a breath. "A week ago . . . shit, a few days ago you were a mess. Now you're a rock star! Like I said, you're really something."

"Thank you," Mark said, appreciating her words and the fact that someone else, someone who mattered to him as much as Callie did, had noticed. "It's easier than I thought it would be." Except really it wasn't. He'd worked really hard to get here. He'd had a lot of help and, honestly, without Meredith, it would still be a painful struggle against the odds. But he'd worked hard and it was paying off. Looking into Callie's kind brown eyes, thinking about how she was there for him, he realized that people cared about him and, suddenly, the image of Karev taking a risk this morning, revealing stuff that hurt him, blazed through Mark's mind.

He had once asked Dr. Wyatt - cynically, despairing, filled with hatred for himself - what other people would feel if they knew he'd been abused. He remembered she'd said _compassion_, that they'd want to help. At the time, he hadn't really been able to take that in, but now . . . now –

Impulsively, he grabbed Callie's elbow, muttering, "Just go with it. Please," as he looked intently into her astonished eyes. He knew he was acting weird, but if he didn't do this right now, his way, he was never going to. She seemed to understand, at least on some level, and allowed him to usher her into the closest private space, which happened to be a supply closet.

Once inside, the door closed, and Mark's hands off her, she looked around. "What the hell?" she said. But Mark just upturned a bucket, directed her to sit on it, and stood with his back against the door, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Briefly, the momentum left him, and he stared helplessly at Callie, as she stared back at him.

"So . . .?" she asked, drawing the word out slightly sarcastically.

He swallowed. "Give me a minute," he began, but then inhaled, pressed his eyes closed and tried to begin. "You're one of my best friends," he said, just allowing the words to spill out. "We've had sex and you're one of my best friends and I trust you, okay?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held out a hand to stop her.

"I'm gonna tell you something. Something I never told anyone." He considered. "Well, I did. But the people I told were either shrinks, or Derek, or his mom, and the first two I had to, and the others were kind of there when it happened, sort of, and I was having a hard time. I didn't tell Meredith. She knows now, but I didn't -"

"Mark!" Callie broke in. "I'm sitting on a damn bucket here. Get a grip!"

"Yeah." He nodded and tried to slow his breathing. "Yeah, I'll . . . just let me . . . " He sighed. There were no more words he could put between himself and the revelation, so he steeled himself and went for it. "I was abused." He looked down, not daring to look at the expression in her eyes. "My mother sexually abused me. Until I was nine years old."

Tears filled Callie's eyes. "You were . . . ?" The words were more breathed than spoken. "Oh my God, Mark!"

He nodded. "That's what all this the past few weeks was about. I blocked it out but then I remembered." He looked up. "When I was in the exam room with you, after I messed up my hand. It came back when -"

Callie's hand flew to her mouth. "When I hit on you!"

"Nah," Mark said softly, shaking his head. "We've been over that, Cal. It started days before that, it just hit me in the exam room and it had nothing –"

She sighed and looked down at the floor.

"Hey, look at me," he said gently and, tentatively, she lifted her eyes. "It had nothing to do with that. You didn't know, you didn't do anything wrong." He inhaled. "Anyway, that's not the point."

Callie nodded and forced herself to let go of the subject.

"The point is . . . I needed to tell someone, and I sort of need you to tell me it's okay that I told you, and that," he swallowed, "the reaction you're having isn't the one the messed-up part of me can't quite let go of." He dipped his head, then glanced up at her. "That it kind of explains all the sex and –"

"Mark!" she interrupted, firmly but softly. "The only reaction I'm having is," she shook her head. "Jesus, I don't even know how to put it into words. Just," she shrugged, "I'm so, so sorry that happened to you. It . . ." Instinctively, she put a hand on her heart. "I'm so, so sorry. And what I said, just now, about you really being something?" She shook her head and smiled. "That doesn't even begin to do you justice."

"Yeah?" Mark asked shyly, knowing a smile was spreading all over his face; it was like the last barrier to the next stage of his life had been removed.

"Yeah," she said, her voice full of caring and friendship.

After that, they were silent for a few moments, until Mark broke it by moving away from the door, opening it a crack and grinning at Callie. "You can get up off that bucket now if you want."

"Oh, thank God," she said, immediately standing and craning her neck to try and look behind herself. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I have a ring imprinted on my butt!"

* * *

Meredith had been okay throughout the afternoon's work with Derek. But when she found herself instinctively ducking around a corner at the sight of the intern class emerging, full of adrenaline, from their test, she realized she'd been deluding herself.

She was on the right track with Lexie, she even kind of liked her and, not only that, but her own interns had taken the test – George included – and she ought be taking an interest. But somehow she couldn't, her mind was too confused and, again, damn it, she recalled this time last year and Thatcher, then her mother, then Richard-freaking-Webber!

She tried to go back to the charting she had left when Derek put her on his case, but she couldn't fix her mind even on that. So, finally, she gave in and went to an on-call room, hoping the solitude and maybe a nap would help her turn back into the semi-sensible human being she'd been that morning.

She soon realized that the solitude part wasn't going to happen, when she opened the door to discover Alex lying on the top bunk. Still, it was Alex, he was familiar with the dark and twisty side of things and, honestly, she didn't have the energy to go and find another on-call room that might not be empty anyway, and possibly occupied by someone altogether too bright and cheery.

"Mer," Alex grunted, lifting his head slightly from the pillow, then allowing it to sink back down.

"Hey," she said. She sat down on the bottom bunk, remaining stiffly on the edge, too worked up to lie down. "You okay?" They were really just words, though; in her current frame of mind, she didn't really care about the answer, but the creaking of bed springs above her let her know that Alex had sat up rapidly.

"Did Sloan say something?" he demanded.

"Uhm . . ." She remembered the conversation at lunch time. "Just something about a patient. You lost a patient, right? He said you were having a hard time with it."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Alex sighed and the bedsprings creaked again as he shifted to what she assumed was a less tense the position. She kind of wished she could do the same.

He sniffed. "He's a good guy," he said, the words clipped and almost swallowed. "He's . . . I, uh, I sorta lost it and he was . . . he's a good guy, that's all." There was a long, intense pause, then he added. "It freaked me out when he went to Psych." He snorted a soft, wry laugh. "Like I told you before, you make me think screwed up people have a chance. It's the same with Sloan." Another pause. "I'm glad you two are back together."

Meredith nodded. She was glad too and she loved hearing Alex praise Mark, but somehow the only words that would come out of her mouth had nothing to do with that. "Yeah, well. I really wouldn't base your theories about screwed up people and their chances on _me_, because you're gonna be disappointed."

"Mer?"

At first, she didn't answer. Then, as the bed springs creaked a third time, this time in a different, more prolonged pattern that was followed by Alex's legs appearing over the side, she sighed, "I'm fine, Alex."

He jumped down in front of her. "Yeah, right." He paused for a moment. "You and Sloan aren't working out?"

Meredith sighed again. "We're working out just fine," she snapped. "It's –" She tried to stop herself: no one needed to hear this crap, probably least of all herself, but she couldn't help it. "It's me. It's freaking me, okay? I drag my stupid past around like a freaking bad smell and the all the emotional air fresheners in the world aren't powerful enough to get rid of it!"

"Nice image." Alex laughed awkwardly.

"I wasn't joking! That's how it feels. I'm damaged. And right now," she wasn't really talking to Alex anymore, "he thinks I saved him or something, but that's just because he feels so bad about himself. I'm damaged and messed up and I should just leave everyone alone and not suck them into my –"

"You want me to get Sloan?" Alex broke in.

Meredith stared at him. "How would anything I'm saying make you reach that conclusion?"

"I'm gonna get Sloan," he said decisively. "He's good at this shit," and he left, banging the door behind him, before she could stop him.

* * *

"Hey." Mark opened the on-call room door, closing it behind himself gently as he stepped inside. "Karev said –"

He stopped short as Meredith stared up at him, her face wet with tears and more welling up in her eyes. She scrubbed at her face and sniffed loudly, but it didn't help.

"I should . . ." She half-stood, but somehow didn't quite have the will to make it the whole way. She was so confused. She had never intended Mark to find her here, but her repeated exhortation to _just get up and leave now!_ wasn't working any better now than it had the first twenty times. She didn't want him here, and yet she couldn't tear herself away from the closeness he offered.

She had to tell him; she had to make him understand how messed up she was, for his own good.

"Meredith?" He kneeled down in front of her. "Mer, what's wrong?"

Fresh tears ran down her face. "I can't," she said. "I can't . . . I'm not . . . I'm not enough for this. You need someone strong, someone who can keep the promises they make, not someone who's so needy you can't freaking breathe one day, then the next shuts you out completely!"

"Okay," Mark said, trying to take it all in and not panic. She was his lifeline, but right now he had to be hers. "It's okay." He gave her hair a brief, cautious stroke, relieved when she relaxed slightly, even it was just a reflex. "Mer, enough doesn't begin to describe you . . . us. We're –"

"No!" She was determined now. "It's okay now, because we're just starting over. But tomorrow and next week and next month?" She shook her head. "I'll overwhelm you. Ask Derek if you need a second opinion, because that's what I did to him. We won't be _us_ anymore, we'll just be a horrible, painful dark and twisty mess."

"Is that right?" Mark asked gently.

"Yes."

"Except," He didn't feel quite right making light of this, but he was trying like hell to stay calm and hopeful. "Didn't we do that already and come out the other side?"

Meredith swallowed and rubbed her eyes. "You have to -" she began.

"It'll be okay," Mark tried to reassure her.

"Please! You have to take me seriously, I'm –"

"It's okay," he repeated softly, raising a hand to stroke her face, but she roughly pushed his hand away.

"It's not freaking okay!" she spat, suddenly flooded with frustration at him, the situation and, above all, herself. "_I_ am not okay, and if you'd ever let me talk about my family you would know that!"

Over the last month, Mark had learned a lot about what people needed to say and not say, and a lot about himself. His own unresolved pain had made him stop her, repeatedly, from telling him stuff she needed to and he owed her. "You want to talk about them now?" he asked softly.

For a moment, she stared at him blankly, tears almost stopped in surprise and mouth half open, then she erupted in a torrent of words. "Oh, where do I start?" she said, laughing humorlessly. "Richard Webber! You want to know why I was so pissed about that today?"

She paused and Mark obliged her with the nod she was waiting for.

"He had an affair with my mother, when they were residents. That's why Thatcher left, and clearly my mother thought Richard would leave Adele for her. But he didn't." She inhaled. "I have this memory, from when I was little, of me sitting on a freaking carousel, going around and around, while Richard and my mother talked, and then he left, and she fell to pieces, and he never visited us again. And then . . ." She found herself gripping her scrubs, both hands in tight fists. She had never told anyone this before. "My mother tried to commit suicide. She cut her wrists with a scalpel and she told me not to try to save her life." She looked directly at Mark. "So I stayed with her until she passed out, then I called 911 and, while I waited for them, I cleaned up the blood."

"Mer –" Mark began, his heart aching for her, but she shook her head violently.

"I'm not done," she said. "And I'm not looking for sympathy. There's a point to this." She paused. "When I was little, I loved Thatcher, and," she gave a bitter half-shrug, "he left. I loved him and now he hates me. Bailey and I operated on his wife – Lexie's mom – and she died. I'd been starting to make . . . friends, I suppose, with them; I liked Susan. But when she died, he blamed me. He slapped me across the face and, when I tried to go to her funeral, he turned up at the hospital drunk and told me no one wanted me there."

She paused, uncurling fists she hadn't realized were still tightened, releasing the fabric of her scrubs and absently smoothing the wrinkles, then sighed softly and continued.

"That was around a year ago. I screwed up my intern test because of it, but George told the Chief," she pressed her eyes closed for a moment, trying to fight back her conflicted feelings about being _special_, "and they let me take it again. Anyway," she waved a hand dismissively, "you know most of the later stuff. Here's the thing though. It's a year ago for Lexie too. It's a year ago since her own mother's death and she has more right to be traumatized than I do. She'd have every right to screw up _her_ test and get a second chance. Except," she gave a fraught laugh, "she's just fine. Making the best of it, all sane and whole and healed. But I'm not. I can't let go." She searched Mark's face. Despite everything, he was still looking at her as though she, as though all of this was fixable. She inhaled hard. "You remember when I fell in the water when the ferryboat crashed?"

He nodded. She had been with Derek then, he'd been an outsider, but he remembered it very well.

"I swam at first," she said. "I swam and then I thought . . . why bother? It was so much easier to just give up."

"I've been there, Mer," Mark said quietly. "I know how bad -"

"I know," she said softly, refocusing from herself to him for a second. "I know you do, and I'm not about to do that again either. It's just . . ." She sighed in defeat. "I'm telling you everything and you're still not getting it!" She looked at him intently. "You have to understand that it's all very well me talking to you about forgiveness and being there and working through the mess, but there's not one single mess in my life that I've ever worked through, so why should we be any different? I'll let you down and you don't need that."

"Meredith," Mark said softly, slightly raising one eyebrow as he waited to see if she'd start talking again. She didn't, so he cleared his throat and said, "You told me not to push you away, remember?"

She nodded.

"Does that work both ways? 'Cause," he smiled, "I'm in this for the long haul. If you smother me one day and shut me out the next," he shrugged, "there'll be lots of other days. It'll even itself out." He paused. "I can't believe I even know how to say this stuff, but the reason I _do_ is you. And listen, if you really don't want to be with me, for real reasons, for yourself well . . . I would get that, but . . ." He swallowed. "You and I both know how we feel and what we feel and," he shook his head, "it's amazing. It's amazing and it got us through more shit than you and your dark and . . . what is it?"

"Twisty," she whispered, hanging on his words and hanging on to the renewed hope they were bringing her. She told him the worst and he was fighting for her, for them; now she knew why she hadn't been able to make herself leave the on-call room, why she'd had to wait for him to come despite her better (make that worse) judgment.

"Right. More than your dark and twisty could ever cause." He dipped his head, then looked in her eyes. "I had a crappy life. Some of it was done to me, some of it I did to myself. Then you came along." He inhaled. "Remember when I told you it would be okay if my cancer got really bad, because I'd have had some time with you?"

She nodded.

"That was bullshit. I only said that because I still had a long way to go." He paused. "I don't want _some_ time with you, I want a really fucking long time. I want to get to know you and I want to you to get to know me. I want to talk about anything and everything and learn how to be really alive." He paused, then added softly. "There's only one person I want to do that with, there's only one person I _can_ do that with," he raised an eyebrow, "assuming she'll get up off this bunk and stop saying she's not enough."

Meredith reached forward and gently grazed his cheek with her fingers. "She can probably do that," she said. "As long as you remember she gave you fair warning."

"I'll take the risk," Mark said. He kissed her forehead and she leaned into the touch of his lips. "So now we know pretty much all the bad stuff," he murmured into her skin. "How about we get started on the good?"

* * *

_**Three Months Later**_

Mark breathed as gently as he could as he watched the play of the early morning sunlight on Meredith's hair - growing out now and just long enough to spread out a little over the pillow. He didn't want to wake her yet, he just wanted to enjoy the sight of her sleeping next to him for a few moments.

He thought back to the dreams he'd had in the psych ward, imagining that she was there with him, only to wake up over and over again to the horrible reality that she wasn't and all because of what he'd done.

Now it was the exact opposite. He still didn't always sleep well, his dreams could still take him places that were hard to deal with, but when he woke, Meredith was there and everything was better because of her.

She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Hmmmm," she said contentedly. "You tired me out last night!" She narrowed her eyes. "And yourself apparently! Shouldn't you be running or bench pressing or whatever?"

Mark shrugged. "I wanted to look at you," he said, then grinned. "And listen to you snore."

Meredith grimaced playfully. "You get that it's weird you like my snoring? Endearing, but definitely weird. Maybe you need to schedule an extra therapy session to work on that."

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Could we make that sexual therapy?"

She rolled her eyes. "You've changed so much, but the lines just don't get any better, do they?"

The teasing words were accompanied by a soft smile, a look in her eyes that was full of pride and love. The lines might not be any better, but it had taken a lot for Mark to reach a point where he could say something like this again, it had taken time and a lot of patience, along with a lot of gratitude on Mark's part, for sex to be something comfortable between them.

He felt warmth in his chest as his eyes met hers for moment, then his grin returned. "Actions speak louder than words." He pushed himself up on his elbows and lowered his body over hers.

"So stop talking," she murmured, then tilted her chin away from him and looked into his eyes. "Hey," she whispered, very softly.

He leaned down, holding back from kissing her, smiling against her lips, just long enough to reply, "Hey."

* * *

_Title Song: __**I'll Stay With You**_, The Goo Goo Dolls

_I'll burn this lonely house down  
__If you run with me  
__If you run with me_

_I'll stay with you  
__The walls will fall before we do  
__Take my hand now  
__We'll run forever  
__I can feel the storm inside you  
__I'll stay with you_

* * *

A/N: thank you to everyone reading this, and for the alerts, favorites and reviews. I have appreciated all of these very much. I have also appreciated your patience - it's taken a very long time to complete this story, but it is now at an end. Thank you for taking the journey with me. Finally, thank you to everyone who helped me with this story, at whatever stage of conception or writing - you were all great.


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